The Soloist
by copyrogueleader
Summary: It isn't long before Blaine realizes that the intra-orchestral relationships of the Valiance Chamber Orchestra are not quite as harmonious as the music it creates. There is one young man in particular, though, who captures Blaine's interest. A man who evokes feelings inside Blaine; feelings that Blaine can only express through music. A man who, irrevocably, becomes Blaine's muse.
1. Chapter 1

**Author:** Copyrogueleader (me!)

**Title:** The Soloist  
**Pairings:** Kurt and Blaine (plus background Tina/Mike and on/off Finn/Rachel)  
**Rating:** PG-13 (if a chapter contains any questionable/explicit material that constitutes an R rating, it will be clearly stated at the beginning of that chapter)  
**Warnings:** Future chapters may contain triggers, but specific warnings will be placed at the beginnings of those chapters.  
**Synopsis: **Blaine Anderson has never performed outside the dives and small bars of Morris Park, East Bronx and the comfort of his own home, but he is something of a protege when it comes to the piano. A chance encounter a very influential figure in the world of music, however, suddenly has Blaine performing in a whole new type of venue: the Palladium Center Hall of Music, a venue that, as far as New Yorkers are concerned, is but one pitch-perfect performance from Carnegie Hall. Blaine is intimidated - and with good reason - by some of his fellow musicians, and soon realizes that these young proteges' intra-orchestral relationships are, in many cases, not quite as harmonious as the music they create. There is one young man in particular, though, who captures Blaine's interest. A man who evokes feelings inside Blaine; feelings that Blaine can only express through music. A man who, irrevocably, becomes Blaine's muse.

**You can follow me at copyrogueleader . tumblr . com for related posts! I'll gradually be posting audio clips of all the songs our characters will be playing, plus some pictures of locations mentioned in the story. Fun stuff ;) **

The Soloist – Chapter I

_Vivaldi: The Four Seasons, Op. 8/1, RV 269, "Spring" - 1. Allegro_

Blaine Anderson had a feeling that the Palladium Center Hall of Music – while architecturally beautiful in every way – would never be anything other than an intimidating monument of stone and marble. It would certainly never be Renato's. It would certainly never be home.

Nevertheless, it was where life seemed to be leading him. While the romance of being a "starving artist" had never lost intrigue or adventure for Blaine, it had never much pleased his parents.

"I'm not _literally_ starving," he had tried – lightheartedly – to explain to mamma and papa Anderson on multiple occasions. For some reason, they could never wrap their heads around the fact that Blaine – while holding a string of unique jobs and spending most of his time performing for his friends and family at Renato's or for the sundry crowds in every tiny, smoke-and-laughter-filled bar in Morris Park, East Bronx – was _happy_. Any and all attempts to make his parents see things from his perspective were, naturally, unsuccessful.

This was why Blaine – arms full of binders upon binders of sheet music – was now navigating his way through the typical early-evening pedestrian traffic, slowly but surely making his way to the Palladium.

Keeping a firm grip on his binders with one arm, Blaine clasped the collar of his coat a little tighter around his neck, protecting himself from the chilly, mid-October wind. He scaled the lengthy stone staircase, walked briskly through the row of tall, majestic-looking columns beneath the grand (though currently unlit) marquee, put his back to one of the gold-rimmed revolving doors, and entered the lobby of the concert hall.

The lobby was completely lit, its intricately gilded ceilings, marble columns, burgundy carpets, and vaulting staircases glowing in all their glory. The balconies of the upper levels which led to the mezzanine as well as the first, second, and third tiers, however, remained unlit, giving the whole place a mysterious kind of vibe, all very Phantom-esque, in Blaine's opinion.

"Hey, there he is!"

Emerging from behind a small set of red curtains that separated the lobby from the winding hallways of the inner theatre was the one and only person Blaine had had to pull out the stops for in order to get this job: grand maestro (and a bit of a legend when it came to uncovering new orchestral talent) William Schuester. In fact, as it turned out, hardly any stops needed to be pulled out in order to win him over.

While the entire idea of putting his "free-spirit" life on hold to do something "more musically professional" (as mamma and papa liked to say) held little appeal for Blaine, even he had to admit: the job was a God-send. _The _William Schuester just happened to sit down for a drink in a little place called Cecily's where Blaine Anderson just happened to be scheduled for a late-night gig. With nothing but a two-hundred-dollar Yamaha, a scratchy old microphone, about nine original songs and five or six covers, Blaine had Will's attention.

It wasn't until they were well into a conversation over drinks (on the maestro, of course) that Blaine's impressively extensive knowledge of classical music even came up. Blaine hadn't had a scrap of formal training, but he had taught himself to read music almost fluently by age seven and was pounding out Mozart, Chopin, Bach, Debussy, and Beethoven by age nine. Now, at twenty-four, his life was pretty much devoted to any and all things piano – a lot of original, Motown-esque, alternative stuff, but nothing had ever snuffed his passion for the classics.

Two auditions was all it took. Two auditions and Blaine had secured himself an eighteen-month contract playing as pianist (as well as, unofficially, organist and harpsichordist) with the Valiance Chamber Orchestra, William Schuester's own, personal contribution to the great city of New York – an orchestra of hand-selected musicians, plucked out of everywhere from the Juilliard School of Music to, evidently, Cecily's Bar & Restaurant in Morris Park.

_That's what they love about William Schuester, _Blaine thought as the middle-aged man pulled him into a warm embrace, _his creativity. _

"Good to see you again, bud," the maestro grinned, giving Blaine a very fatherly squeeze on the shoulder.

Blaine, still shaky from the icy wind, huffed out a friendly "You too, sir, you too," before getting a better grip on his binders.

"Ah, please. Call me Will."

Blaine just laughed and gave him a timid smile, and before he could say another word, Will had relieved Blaine of about half of his numerous binders and was steering him in the direction of the auditorium.

"Everyone's just starting to get warmed up, so just jump right in there, make yourself at home, and let me worry about introductions, all right?"

Blaine swallowed nervously. "Yeah, yeah sure. Thank you."

Finally, they entered the theatre. Blaine had only been inside the actual auditorium a couple of times; most of his auditions had taken place in the practice studios backstage. The few times he had seen it, though, it was either too dark or too brief a visit to really let the height, the beauty, the sheer majesty of the place sink in.

Every awning and railing of every box and balcony was intricately gilded with intertwining golden designs, all leading a viewer's eyes up to the impossibly high ceilings that were painted romantically with clouds – heavens, really – and angels, and mythological creatures, and pale pinks, and pastel greens, all surrounding the golden hinge and chain which held a breathtaking chandelier…

Staring up so high for so long started to make him dizzy, so Blaine turned his attention back to following the man in front of him down the red carpeted aisle, towards the stage.

The other forty-two members of the orchestra (Blaine had done his homework) were bustling around the stages, unpacking their instruments, a few flutists and violinists already beginning to warm up. Gaining that "admission" or "membership" into a new group of people was always intimidating; no matter how many times in life a person went through the process. New school, new workplace… it never seemed to get any easier. Following Will up the steps that led to the magnificent stage and taking his seat at the concert grand, though, Blaine couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable, watching the other members all talking, gossiping, laughing amongst themselves.

It reminded Blaine of that "discourse community" stuff he'd learned about in his first-year college composition class. Specifically, the James Paul Gee philosophy that there was no "pseudo-membership" or "semi-understanding" of a community; you were either a member, or not. This irritated Blaine. And frightened him, if he was being completely honest with himself.

Will set the rest of Blaine's music on the floor next to the piano bench, gave him another amiable clap on the shoulder, then made his way to the podium and started organizing his own materials.

Blaine set his coat aside, rolled the sleeves of his sweater up just below his elbows (playing for long stretches of time always evoked the need to give his forearms room to breathe), pulled out his Vivaldi and set the numerous sheets on the piano in front of him. _One, two, three… five…? _

"Hey, your music ran away from you."

"What?"

Blaine turned to see a young man (_What a voice…_) taking a few steps towards him, a bow and violin in one hand and "The Four Seasons" page four in the other.

"Your music," he smiled, handing the piece of paper back to Blaine, "ran away from you."

"Oh, yeah," Blaine laughed, "I guess it did." He made space for page four between pages three and five, then turned back to the young man who had returned it to him. "Thank you," he said.

"Sure. So, you must be the uh," he laughed softly, "mysterious new pianist."

This time, when Blaine looked at him, he _really_ _looked _at him. He was tall and lean, but gave off the sense that he was strong, stood his ground. His sleeves were – like Blaine's – rolled to his elbows, and the first couple buttons on his navy blue blouse were undone, the stretch of dark fabric accentuating firm shoulders, strong arms, and soft, fair skin.

He had a kind face; soft features and an unassuming expression. He had light brown hair, light eyes… but of all the things Blaine had taken in about him thus far, the most interesting was, by far, his voice. It was lovely. Gentle, nearly feminine, but lovely.

"I uh," Blaine laughed a little as well, "I guess I am. Although I'd hardly say "mysterious." There's really not that much to me."

"Oh, well, we'll see about that," he said, playfulness bouncing on his words and dancing in his eyes. "My name's Kurt." He extended a hand.

Blaine took it fondly. "Blaine," he said, "Good to meet you."

"You too. Hey, listen," Kurt stepped in a little closer and leaned against the concert grand, as if to make sure none of the other musicians were listening, and continued, "Some of the guys caught wind of your, uh… "unorthodox" musical background…"

"Lack of musical education, you can say it," Blaine nodded, laughing shyly.

Kurt smiled. "Yeah, well. Some of them are uh… they're… kind of…" Kurt sighed, then so pointedly and bluntly stated, "they're snobs," that Blaine had to hold back his laughter.

"I'm serious!" Kurt whispered urgently, fighting back a grin himself.

"Any one person in particular I should be on the lookout for, here?" Blaine asked in a good-natured mimic of Kurt's urgent whisper.

Kurt's eyes widened in what Blaine read as sheer exasperation when he said, "Ohhh yeah. Her name is-"

"Alright everyone, let's bring it in, grab a seat, and we'll get things started."

Kurt gave Blaine a shrug and a humorous "we'll finish this discussion later" look before returning to his seat and propping his violin against his neck, and preparing to tune up.

Will picked up his conductor's baton and indicated to one of the oboists sitting further back (an unusual-looking man, Blaine noticed, sporting a lot of hemp and a full head of dreadlocks) give the pitch, the rest of the orchestra soon following suit. After a few seconds of fine tuning, the distinctive sounds of each and every instrument all melted into one steadily humming note. In Blaine's opinion, there was a certain mesmerizing musicality to the sound of an orchestra tuning itself, all instruments coming together and becoming one. Truly a beautiful sound. He had actually gotten a few chills in that fleeting but breathtaking moment.

"Thank you, Joe," Will called out before setting his baton back onto the conductor's podium, picking up and briefly glancing over a document, then crinkling it up and setting it by his baton. "All right, gang. As you all know, Thanksgiving is just around the corner, which means Christmas is one its way, which means it's almost the New Year, _which means…" _

Some of the other musicians chuckled amongst themselves and exchanged amused glances as Will continued…

"Come January, we're going to have a whole lot of rehearsing to do to get ready for our annual April Concert. Now, I know when Sunshine left last month, it was major setback." An irritated murmur spread across the orchestra. "However," Will stated, clapping his hands and rubbing them together enthusiastically, "I am pleased to announce that her official replacement for the next eighteen months is finally here to join us – everyone, please give a warm welcome to Mr. Blaine Anderson."

The applause wasn't exactly zealous, but it was polite and encouraging. There was, though, a small faction of young men in the back corner who cheered loudly and boisterously, despite the fact that Blaine had never met them. The biggest ham of them all was a heavily-built, darker-skinned character with a shaved head and a Mohawk that, in Blaine's opinion, looked more like a dead squirrel than a tuft of hair.

There was something about their winning grins that made Blaine sure that their slightly over-the-top welcome cheer was good-natured, and genuinely accepting. He grinned back at them, shoulders shaking as he laughed under his breath.

"All right, all right… that's enough, Noah," Will smirked, indicating the Mohawked man in the back. "Now, today we're going to continue with our newly-arranged rendition of-"

"_Mister_ Schuester."

Will closed his eyes for just a moment, then opened his mouth to recognize the comment when a girl – a tiny little thing with dark brown hair just to her shoulders - stood up (and even so, Blaine still had trouble spotting her from amongst the others). And _my gosh, is she loud. _

"While my fellow albeit less confrontational and more easily manipulated musicians may be completely content to sit idly by and watch you pluck informally trained and under-qualified musicians out of obscurity and allow them to gain unearned access to _our_ hard work, _I _am not so willing."

Will sighed and put a hand to his forehead. "Rachel…"

"_And," _she continued, ignoring Will's attempt to interject, "I think I speak for everyone when I say that the most reasonable decision you can make in this situation is to demote – um, I mean – _move_ Kurt to the position of pianist as he is formally trained and more than capable of taking on such a more mild, less-demanding job."

"Rachel, that's not…"

"_And then, _instead of," she sighed dramatically, "_divvying_ _up_ the violin solos or whatever it was you planned to do for the April Concert, you can give them to the musician who has had the longest-running and most rigorous form of formal training in this entire orchestra. When you finally decide on a set list, you can send me the music PDFs via email."

Blaine would have sworn that he could hear the nearly imperceptible unraveling of the crinkled-up paper on Will's podium in the silence that followed. And it took Blaine a moment to realize it, but quite a bit of heat had crept up his neck and, most likely, into his face.

"Are you done?" Will asked, eyeing the girl called Rachel with agitation.

She gave a deliberate nod and sat back down.

"I hope you realize, Rachel – and this goes for anyone else in here who feels the same but isn't saying anything – that when you undermine the decisions I make, you undermine me, and you undermine my expertise. Blaine is not good "for an untrained pianist." His skill level is _incredible_ for _any _pianist."

Blaine could feel the heat continuing to creep up his neck as eyes turned to him. This was definitely _not _how he had envisioned his first day going.

In another instant, the tiny but fierce girl was back on her feet, and the rest of the orchestra was beginning to murmur in exhaustion as she demanded, "But if Kurt is just as good, then why not make _him _pianist and give _me _the solos that are rightfully mine?"

"Rachel, that's enough!"

She fell silent again.

"Kurt is a _violinist, _Rachel. Yes, he is a spectacular pianist, one of the best I've seen, but he is just as good of a violinist and, more importantly, he _wants_ to play the _violin_."

For the first time throughout the entire confrontation, Blaine chanced a look at Kurt. He was surprised at what he saw.

He had been expecting frustrated, irritated, some form of being annoyed. But what he saw, was… _embarrassment? Maybe a little… disappointment? In who, himself? Why would he be disappointed in himself? He hasn't said a word… I wonder why he doesn't tell her all of this himself… maybe he has already… _

"… And in case you've forgotten, Rachel, Kurt is one of five first violinists. You two are at the same level. He earned his position just like you did, and I hardly think it's fair for you to suggest that he doesn't deserve to be where he is. _This _is why we have yet to assign a concertmaster. It's too close of a call to be fair to either of you. Now get off his back, sit down, and play well your part."

Blaine saw the most fleeting exchange take place between Will and Kurt – briefly, they made eye contact, and Kurt mouthed an imperceptible "thank you." Will responded with a soft look and a small nod.

There was another silence, not quite as long or painful as the last. In a moment, though Rachel (her voice softer this time, and a little defeated) was speaking again.

"Well," she said, "I think that the least Mr. Anderson can do – since he already seems to have won you over, Mister Schuester – is prove his worth to his peers."

Blaine felt as though his heart had fallen into his stomach.

"What are you saying, Rachel?" Will asked.

"Let him audition again. For _us. _If he's as good as you say he is, one little number shouldn't be hard. And it seems only fair, given that I – as well as a few others here – are Juilliard-trained and have rightfully _earned _our positions. Why should we not have a say in whether or not he's earned _his?" _

Another short silent followed in which Will stared, tiredly and hopelessly, at the tiny but fiery violinist named Rachel. He sighed. He closed his eyes, and quietly, he said, "If it will settle this matter once and for all so that we can continue rehearsals with no further interruptions or unnecessary animosity towards our _peers," _he opened his again and shot a glare in Rachel's direction, "I'm sure Blaine would be more than happy to oblige."

All eyes, it seemed, were suddenly fixed on Blaine, and he felt frozen.

"Either one of your audition pieces will do, Blaine," Will said in a comforting tone. Unfortunately, beneath it Blaine heard Rachel scoff, most likely at the fact that "either one of your audition pieces" clearly indicates that yes, he only had two auditions. "Or, if you have something else in mind, that will be fine. Whatever you're most comfortable with," Will finished.

Blaine swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone-dry. He gave a quick nod then turned back towards the piano keys. He reached onto the floor and retrieved the binder labeled "Mozart," withdrawing a few sheets and replacing "The Four Seasons" on the piano's music stand. He put his fingers to the keys.

Just before he hit the first note, though, he paused. _Don't do it, _he told himself, _Sure it'd make a statement, but it's not worth the risk… oh, fuck it. _

He gathered up the sheets, and put them back in his binder.

_This'll give them something to talk about. _

Without another second's hesitation and without the sheet music, he dove straight into Mozart's eleventh Sonata, hoping to God he could pull it off… by memory.

**Comments never go unappreciated! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. Next chapter will be posted soon :) **


	2. Chapter 2

The Soloist - Chapter II

_Mozart: Piano Sonata #11 In A, K 331, "Turkish March" - 3. Rondo Alla Turca_

It is quite difficult to describe musicality – true musicality – to a person who is not a musician. The processes of the mind that only occur during performance are possibly some of the most mysterious aspects of the brain's inner workings, and yet, there was a small part of Blaine that didn't _want _to understand them. Breaking down a beautiful thing, dissecting it into pieces so that it can be analyzed, understood, often makes the thing less beautiful.

So it was with Blaine's performance – by memory – of Mozart's eleventh Sonata "Rondo Alla Turca" on his very first day with the Valiance Chamber Orchestra. He touched the first note, and from there, his fingers sped, but his heart and mind sped even faster.

_Ring three four thumb, ring three four thumb, ring three four thumb. Three notes twice. Trill two three four, trill two three four, trill two three four five. Repeat. _

He could feel his heart beating in his ears, keeping in time with the music…

_Major lift, major drop. Repeat. Minor lift, minor drop. Repeat. _

Seconds before he had started playing, he had been aware that he was starting to sweat, that he had an itch at the back of his neck, that his new shoes would inhibit his ability to use the sustain pedal. Now, the only vestibular senses he had at all were for his two wrists, his two hands, his ten fingers, and his right foot which, despite his earlier (and rather irrational) concern about his new shoes, was performing its part well.

_Ring three four thumb, ring three four thumb, ring three four thumb. Take it down, take it down, aaand… refrain. _

He reached the refrain. The part he knew better than the backs of his two hands which, despite that ever-mysterious lapse in mental processes that all musicians experience at some point during any given performance, continued playing. Not a wrong note was hit. Not a beat was missed. And Blaine was just watching. Watching his hands play.

_I could stop if I wanted, _he mused, watching his hands go, go, go… repeating the verse, the _ring two three four_ again, again… and go back into the refrain… _I'm in control of my hands. They're moving because I'm making them move. They're touching the notes I want them to touch. I could hit a wrong note. I might forget what comes next. Oh God, what comes next… right, right, up up up, then down down down… then repeat. Then bumble bee again… then back to the beginning… _

_Refrain. _

Muscle memory, that's what it was. Regardless of whether or not Blaine's mind had been blank or repeating _major lift, major drop, minor lift, minor drop, _if he had wanted to pound out Mozart's eleventh Sonata, his hands _would _have. Blaine knew this, because the same thing happened every time he put his hands to the keys: his mind guided him for the first several measures, instructing his hands, and then… nothing. His mind went somewhere else, but his hands pressed on.

And then, at the very end, when his heart had reached a dangerous rate and he was starting to think _Oh God, I'm so close, but it doesn't mean anything, I could still hit a wrong note, I have twelve measures to screw this up, _his mind stepped back in.

_Offset the double notes, offset the double notes, three trills and quiet, quiet, quiet, double notes in unison, double notes in unison, up down, up down, up down up down up down, and, DONE. _

In a moment of sheer Beethoven-esque behavior, Blaine sat, still and quiet as ever as he stared down at the keys after finishing the song, and until he was slapped genially on the back an impossibly tall, strongly-built yet baby-faced percussionist, he hadn't noticed that the rest of the orchestra had positively erupted with applause.

Still somewhat frozen and very much shocked by the zealous response to his performance, Blaine finally brought himself to glance up and smile, shyly, at the other musicians, all of which (except Rachel, he noticed, who was eyeing him smugly with her arms crossed over her chest), were grinning either impressed at him or vindicated at Rachel, he was somewhat fulfilled to see.

Glancing appreciatively at each face, Blaine suddenly found his eyes locked with those of the violinist named Kurt. He wouldn't have lingered so had it not been for the expression on his face. Again, just as before when Blaine glanced his way during the argument, his facial expression was not exactly what he had expected it to be. He supposed he had expected it to look like everyone else's; an encouraging smile, perhaps. And it was, to an extent, encouraging. But there was something else there too. A look of pride, almost. Pride as you see it in the face of a lover when his or her spouse does or says something deserving of praise. Pride, admiration… and something else that Blaine just couldn't put his finger on. Curiosity, maybe…

The ardent applause finally began to die down. "Thank you so much, Blaine," Will said warmly above the last lingering claps, "Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic."

Blaine nodded at him, humbly accepting the compliment. Something in the enthusiasm of his new peers and the way Will had just spoken to him made Blaine sure that if James Paul Gee had been there, he'd have to eat his words. While Blaine was sure he'd have plenty more tests of strength to go as long as little Rachel was around, he already felt well on his way to becoming part of this new family.

"All right then, gang. "The Four Seasons, Spring." Let's do it."

* * *

One flinch of a finger left Blaine wincing. He thought he'd done it all, he really did. Sure, he'd never played in an orchestra before, but he'd spent _hours, _sometimes seven, eight, nine, sitting in front of a piano, playing his heart out on his own time.

But never in his life had his fingers felt like _this. _

The songs, the speed and complexity of each, the duration, the minimal breaks… all joined forces and put Operation: Torture Blaine's Hands into effect.

When Will had finally brought the last number to a close and given the orchestra one final pep talk / run-down of what the upcoming months had in store, Blaine heaved a sigh of relief and, despite the interior jabs of protest, opened and closed his hands a few times, cracking his knuckles and releasing hours' worth of built-up tension.

He was just in the process of rolling his neck a few times when, neck stretched backwards and room upside-down, he found himself face-to-face with a particularly agitated-looking girl. _Rachel_.

"Just so you know, Blaine Anderson," she said, Blaine straightening up and turning so that he could look at her properly, "My extensive formal training as well as my unparalleled, God-given talent put me one step above _every _member of this chamber, and you are not about to change that."

"I wasn't trying to-"

"I always have been and will always be the only reason this orchestra is as renowned as it is today, and no one, _especially _an unknown, untrained, under-qualified _pianist_, is going to take that away from me."

"I would never-"

"And while you're tickling away at those ivories, decibels so far beneath those of the first violinists that your contributions to this chamber are all but _inaudible_ to the audience, I want you to know deep down that _that's _what you are to this orchestra: all but insignificant. So don't even _think _about trying to upstage me or get in the way of my impending stardom."

She took a deep breath, and before Blaine could even try to interject, looked him directly in the eye and shot, "I'm glad we had this talk," before storming off.

Blaine felt as though he had been pushed to the ground and punched in the stomach. He'd been called a lot of mean things throughout his life, most of which were slurs thrown at him all throughout high school that he wouldn't dare repeat, but there was something Rachel had spat at him in her… _freakishly self-righteous_ ramblings… that felt like a stab in the heart.

Insignificant.

That hurt. A lot. He knew he was being silly, taking it so seriously (this girl, he had decided, obviously had some issues and desperately needed a priority check), but he couldn't help it. _Insignificant. _And from someone he barely knew…

He shook it off as best he could, reminding himself why he was here in the first place: _convince my parents that I'm doing something with my life, make some money and save it up, dabble in some different environments and give different jobs a chance… Calm down. You're not here to prove anything. _

Coming back to his senses, Blaine realized that a good portion of the musicians were already packed up, coats on and heading either backstage and out the backdoor or up the aisles of the theatre to exit through the front. The rest were still buzzing around, packing up their instruments, talking and laughing amongst themselves.

Several came over to him as he gathered up his music and he introduced themselves, all very pleasant and seeming genuinely friendly toward him, which he appreciated. He met the very laid-back oboist with the dreadlocks, the enthusiastic, Mohawked bass trombonist (who specifically requested Blaine refer to him as "Puck," short for "Puckerman"), a very young musician with a particularly kind-looking face and mild demeanor who spoke in a heavy Irish accent, and a few others here and there. Most were also more than complimentary of his talent, which he also appreciated, very much.

When the others began to filter out as well, Blaine stood up beside his compilation of music and stretched his arms to the ceiling, rolled his neck a few more times, then let his arms fall down again as he walked to the back of the piano where the quilted cover was lying unceremoniously on the floor.

He had been alone at this point, or so he thought. He hoisted the heavy thing onto the piano lid, sifting through folds upon folds, trying to find the front end.

"Here, it's the one with the red tag on it."

"Hu… huh?"

A familiar gentle laugh, then the violinist, Kurt, appeared next to him, took the cover in his hands, and worked his hands from one end to the other until he was holding a fold with a tiny, red cloth tag sewn into the hem.

"You can find the front by looking for the little red tag, see?" He held out the hem.

Blaine nodded, then smiled, "Duly noted," before looking up at Kurt.

"Are… are you okay?"

He mentally slapped himself as soon as he'd asked it. He barely knew Kurt, for goodness' sake… but it was so clear to Blaine that something was wrong that his inhibitions and his sense of propriety momentarily vanished. Kurt's eyes were shining, his nose was pink, his entire face, actually, was slightly flushed. Blaine knew it didn't make any sense, but somehow, he _knew, _or thought he knew, anyway, that Kurt hadn't been crying, but rather, resisting the urge to cry.

Blaine felt his emotions mixing, contradicting themselves when Kurt responded with a smile, a sniffle, and a too-quick "Yeah, yeah I'm fine." Part of him was relieved that Kurt didn't ask "Why do you ask?" and Blaine didn't have to stammer stupidly, trying to come up with a response other than "your eyes are glassy and your face is flushed and it looks like you've been trying not to cry," which would have made him sound way too observant and creepy for a normal human being.

But there was another part of Blaine that was mentally reprimanding himself for taking relief in the fact that Kurt was bottling up whatever was bothering him. Well-acquainted or not, that wasn't something he ever enjoyed seeing a person do.

"Oh… yeah, yeah sorry, I don't know why I…" _You're stammering stupidly anyway, you _idiot_. Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it._

"It's fine," Kurt said… _Saving my awkward ass once again. _

Kurt sniffled again, then handed Blaine one side of the cover. Together, they pulled it forward and around the font of the piano until the black quilt was fitted snugly around the entire concert grand.

"Like a glove," Blaine said, patting their handiwork proudly.

Kurt smiled. He walked back over to his chair, where (to Blaine's curiosity) he had yet to pack up a single thing. He started organizing his music into a shiny black folder.

"Need any help?" Blaine asked, running a hand over the now enveloped piano once last time before moving around it to Kurt's music stand.

"Oh, don't worry about me," he said, a hint of something sad in his voice that made Blaine feel… he wasn't sure exactly how it made him feel. Almost like Kurt was trying to tell him something…

He brushed it aside, reasoning, again, _He doesn't even know you. _

"Hey," Kurt said, suddenly turning around, violin in hand. Blaine looked at him questioningly. "Don't let Rachel get to you," he said, a certain amount of warmth and comfort in his eyes that, despite the abstractness of the idea, was clear as day to Blaine. "She's like that with everybody… sometimes I wonder if there's actually something wrong, you know, 'upstairs' with that girl."

Kurt punctuated his last sentence with a wide-eyed grimace that made Blaine laugh, then turned back to his chair to place his bow and violin carefully into their case. Snapping it shut, he glanced over his shoulder at the still-grinning Blaine with a knowing smile.

"I'll try not to," Blaine said, pulling on his coat while Kurt pulled his on as well. "She really knows how to hit you hard, though. With words. I mean, I've been called some pretty nasty things in my life," Blaine thought he saw Kurt's expression soften at this, "But _ouch_," he laughed, halfheartedly.

"Believe me, I know," Kurt said, his tone all empathetic and not at all attention-diverting. "I've been called some pretty nasty things as well, but she…" he huffed out a breath, partly amused and partly annoyed, "She certainly knows how to tear a person down."

"Well, we tune it out and keep moving forward, right?"

"Right," Kurt agreed, picking up his music and violin case.

Blaine stored his binders beneath the piano, just taking one home, the one containing his 'homework' for the week. Blaine's stomach did a happy little flip when he realized that Kurt was all ready to go, but was simply standing by his chair, waiting for Blaine. Whether out of politeness or out of the actual desire to keep talking to him, Blaine didn't care. Either way, it was nice gesture. It made him feel slightly more… at home.

"So, how long have you been here?" Blaine asked as they made their way back up the aisles towards the theatre lobby.

"Here as in Valiance, New York, planet Earth…?"

Blaine chuckled. "How about all three?"

Kurt looked a little surprised, like it wasn't often he had someone to bounce jokes off of around here. He smiled at Blaine, looked ahead as they walked and began. "Well, I've lived in New York my whole life. I grew up in the Bronx, and still live there now, two doors down from where I was raised. I got into Valiance when I was nineteen. My family never had a lot of money, but my dad had always set some aside so I could keep taking music lessons. I just went to Community, but I had a professor who," he sighed, smiling, "saw something in me, I guess. Got me an audition, and here I am. Oh, and as for planet Earth," he added, eyes glinting playfully, "Twenty-one years, four months, seventeen days and counting."

"And counting? Until what exactly?"

"Ohhh no." Kurt shook his head. "That's for me to know and you to _maybe _find out."

"Oh, come on," Blaine urged.

Kurt just shook his head, his lips sealed.

"You've got your sights set on somewhere else…?"

"How about _my _turn?" Kurt interrupted, turning to look at him again. "How about you, Mr. Anderson?"

After a quick exchange about _The Matrix _for Blaine's name's sake, Blaine gave Kurt the _Reader's Digest_ version of how he had landed the pianist position in the chamber. Kurt, though, was more interested in Blaine's free-spirit lifestyle before coming in the orchestra.

"So where else in the Bronx do you play?" Kurt asked, when Blaine mentioned Cecily's and Renato's.

Blaine shrugged, elbowing his way through the velvet red curtains and into the lobby. "Mostly just around Morris Park, which is also where I grew up." When Kurt's face lit up a little, Blaine began to ask, "You said the Bronx, are you from…?"

"Woodlawn," Kurt finished, nodding, "It's like, I don't know, a ten minute drive, at most."

"Yeah, yeah I've been through there. A very Irish neighborhood, if I recall," Blaine remembered, giving Kurt a questioning look just as Kurt began to nod, rolling his eyes amusedly to himself.

"Yeah," he sighed, humorously, "I… come from a _very_ Irish family. Did, did you meet my cousin today?"

Blaine thought back to some of the last minute introductions, and instantly remembered the kind-faced boy with the heavy Irish accent before turning back to Kurt with an excited, "Oh yeah! Green shirt, hair like Elvis Presley…" to which Kurt simply laughed and nodded, "Yeah, that'd be Rory."

"He seemed sweet," Blaine said.

"Yeah, he is." Kurt whispered a soft, "Thanks," when Blaine pushed and held open one of the side doors for him (as the revolving doors were already locked up for the night), and the two made their way out onto the sidewalk. It was _cold. _Blaine would have bet that the temperature had dropped twenty degrees, easy.

Blaine offered to accompany Kurt on the subway ride back to Woodlawn, as his own stop let off just a bit beforehand, but Kurt said he had a few errands to run midtown before heading home for the night. They bid each other goodnight, Blaine thanking Kurt for the warm welcome and Kurt assuring him it was his pleasure.

The ride home wasn't all that crowded, given the lateness of the hour. But Blaine's mind had been in so many places at once… Will, Rachel, the chamber, the pain in his hands in fingers, Kurt… that he nearly missed his stop.

Even the relatively short walk from the subway station to his neighborhood had him almost completely worn out. All Blaine could think about as he unlocked the front door and stepped inside the small but cozy two-floor home was climbing into bed… but by the time he had hung up his coat, dropped his music on top of the upright in the small living area, climbed the steps to his bedroom, taken a quick, hot shower, and dressed himself in a t-shirt and flannels, he seemed to have passed the point of exhaustion.

Cursing himself for not just saying "screw it" and collapsing onto the couch when he walked in, fully clothed and music still in hand, he figured as long as he wasn't going to be getting to sleep anytime soon, he might as well do something about the rumbling in his belly.

He made his way down to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, spotting the carton of eggs and remembering the fresh bagels Wes's mother had brought the two of them the day before, and decided that an 11:00 pm breakfast sounded absolutely fantastic at the moment.

He sliced a bagel in half and slid the two pieces into the toaster, then whipped up a scrambled egg mix and poured it into the sizzling pan, adding salt and pepper and scrambling the mixture with a spatula.

Blaine hadn't realized that he had been humming to himself, and wasn't sure exactly when he had started or what he had been humming. Conscious of it, he retraced his mental steps and realized he had been thinking about Kurt. His interesting, unexpected facial expressions, the sadness in his eyes after rehearsal, but his kindness and willingness to make Blaine feel welcome…

Blaine kept up the humming, moving from note to note without any inhibitions, just improvisation. He found himself repeating a combination of six or seven notes, a short little tune in a minor key, as he pulled the bagel slices out of the toaster and dished some scrambled eggs onto a plate next to them.

He was just taking a seat at the kitchen table when he heard the front door open, and looked into the living room to see Wes Montgomery (his long-time friend and roommate) stepping in out of the cold, rubbing his hands together and "burrrring" dramatically.

"Do I smell breakfast?" he called into the kitchen.

Blaine, his mouth already full of scrambled eggs, gestured to the frying pan with his fork as Wes passed him, clapping him on the back in gratitude.

"Thanks man," he said, plopping down into the chair next to Blaine with a plate of his own. Blaine swallowed, then finally asked with a mischievous look, "So…?"

Wes smirked. "So… what?"

"Details…?" Blaine pressed, waggling his eyebrows at Wes.

Wes just gave him a knowing smile. That night had been a new "first date" for Wes, his first in months. He'd become something of a workaholic after his most recent breakup, totally and completely devoting every minute of his spare time to his job as a journalist for one of their many local papers. And being that he was pretty much "big brother #2" to Blaine, Blaine hated seeing him so miserably anti-social.

Blaine had been somewhat teasing of course, as he wasn't expecting anything too juicy to have happened on the first date, nor would have wanted _any_ details whatsoever, but he was curious as to how it had gone. And, Wes had been happy to report that the girl "showed a lot promise, especially for a first date."

Nevertheless, Wes was unable to conceal the reservations he had about dating again in general. The last girl he had been with, well… tellingly, he and Blaine now referred to her as Envy Adams. "_It sums up her personality and gives us an excuse to make daily Scott Pilgrim references," _Blaine had told Wes in an attempt to make him crack a smile those many months ago,_ "Two birds, one stone."_

Fortunate enough not to have had any traumatic dating experiences himself, Blaine vaguely began to wonder on how strongly past experiences could affect a person, particularly in his or her love life, when Wes inquired about Blaine's day and pulled him back to reality.

Blaine filled him in on the day, keeping it as short and simple as possible, as sleepiness finally seemed to be creeping back into him.

He thought about bringing up Kurt, and nearly opened his mouth to do it, but then realized that he didn't have anything to say about him. He just _wanted _to have something to say about him, for some reason. Probably, he reasoned, because he was curious about him, about why he looked so upset when he appeared there with Blaine after the others had left. There was nothing there to discuss though. Nothing concrete.

Wes eventually went up to bed while Blaine did the dishes, humming to himself again. By the time he had shut of the kitchen light, gone upstairs to his bedroom, climbed into bed and slumped, exhaustion having taken him over once again, into his pillows, the melody had grown to include exactly nine notes. Over and over it ran inside Blaine's head, hauntingly beautiful, lulling him to sleep.

**Thanks for reading! Comments are greatly appreciated, as always – I love hearing everyone's thoughts. Cheers =) **


	3. Chapter 3

**You guys have been wonderfully patient with me, and I thank you muchly for that! A few notes about Chapter III: if you haven't already, you'll **_**definitely **_**wanna check out my Tumblr for this one. Beneath my "Ask" and "Submit" tabs, there's a tab entitled "The Soloist." Click on that, and it'll give you some pictures, as well as the link to each song referenced in every chapter! So feel free to listen as you go, or check them out when you're done reading (: Also, if you have never seen "The Piano Duet" scene in the movie **_**Corpse Bride, **_**you'll definitely want to check that out on Youtube so you can fully appreciate this chapter. Thank you so much for reading! **

The Soloist – Chapter III

_Danny Elfman: "The Piano Duet"_

Blaine Anderson did not, by any means, lack respect for William Schuester. His work in the world of music was more than notable, and the countless opportunities he was creating for young musicians in the city of New York were truly invaluable. Blaine knew this, and was eternally appreciative.

After about four or five weeks of life in the orchestra, however, Blaine had come to realize something about his new maestro; not only were his methods unorthodox (which Blaine had been vaguely aware of due to his reputation of being "innovative"), but he tended to spend a great deal of time having the orchestra perfect and perform the most random pieces, only then to note that no, they were not going to be using those pieces for the spring concert.

It was a fascinating environment, in many ways. Fascinating, stimulating, educational… if there was one thing Blaine knew he would take away from all of this, it was stronger hands and fingers.

And, he hoped, friendship. He had gotten to know quite a few of the members, and nearly all were gracious and kind, but the effort Kurt put into making sure Blaine was comfortable with a new piece or could pull it together when confronted by Rachel was far more than simple, welcoming propriety.

All that said, though, Blaine still didn't know too much about him, or why he got the feeling around him…

_The feeling, _he had decided, _that doesn't have a name._

* * *

After bringing to a close a lovely rendition of Pachelbel's "Canon in D Major" (another number that was breathtakingly beautiful but still left Blaine wondering, _Why rehearse this to perfection if it's not on our set list for the Spring Concert…?), _Will motioned for the orchestra's attention.

"All right, gang, listen up."

Blaine moved from the harpsichord back to the piano and stretched out a little, hearing his shoulder joints crack in his ears as he did so, then turned to straddle the piano bench and divert attention to the maestro.

"As you all know, I have been working to put together a set list for April."

Blaine wasn't one to be sarcastic, even in his mind, but he had to wonder, _Have you? Really? _

"I have a few great, classic numbers picked out that I think will really give us some opportunities to shine."

Blaine saw Rachel straighten in her chair and brush her dark brown hair back behind her shoulders. He then had to stifle a laugh when he noticed the Latina clarinetist whose name he couldn't recall mimicking her, brushing her hair behind her own shoulders, lolling her head from side to side in a googly-eyed impersonation which sent the blonde-haired clarinetist (the one, Blaine remembered, infamous for asking the occasional unintelligent question) and the stunningly beautiful blonde flutist beside her into fits of giggles.

"That being said," Will continued, "I know there's been a lot of drama surrounding who's going to be appointed concertmaster, as well as which violinist is going to get the solos… so," he clapped his hands together, looking fairly pleased with himself for whatever he was about to share, "I've decided we should finally settle this, once and for all."

"Rachel and Kurt."

Both snapped to attention at the sound of their names.

"About a month ago, I instructed each of you to perfect, in your spare time, the lead melodies in two pieces: Act 3 of Handel's Solomon and Mozart's Thirteenth Serenade. Correct?"

Both nodded vigorously, Rachel looking almost smug with what Blaine guessed was the simplicity of the requested pieces for someone of her expertise, Kurt looking almost emotionless, as if trying to hide his anxiety.

"And the rest of you have been practicing the same pieces for just about the same amount of time. So! For the last two songs of the day… we're going to have a deciding face-off. No warming up, no practice runs. We go through Handel, we go through Mozart, you two…" he gestured to Rachel and Kurt, whose faces, Blaine noticed, were becoming harder and more determined by the second. "Alternate the lead. Switch things up. Surprise me! Impress me. And at the end, I'll make a decision."

Silence enveloped the entire group, and by the looks on everyone's faces, Blaine could see that this was a whole new kind of creativity, even for Will Schuester. Almost subconsciously, he was expecting Rachel to break the silence with either dissention or some form of smack talk, but before she could open her mouth to do so, Kurt had stood up, grabbed the back of his chair, and, eyeing Rachel severely the entire time, dragged it to the center floor, just a couple yards in front of the conductor's podium. Not a second later, Rachel did the same. Mere feet from each other they sat, violins at the ready, staring each other down with fire in their eyes.

Will raised his conductor's baton.

Blaine quickly moved back to the harpsichord in preparation for the piece, and turned when he felt a pat on the back. The impossibly tall percussionist named Finn was suddenly leaning down, whispering in his ear.

"Ever seen a pro boxing match?" he asked.

Blaine paused, a little confused, before looking over his shoulder at the taller man and whispering, "Uh, yeah?"

Finn just laughed. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

* * *

"_Excuse me?" _

The entire chamber – the _entire _chamber – was in an uproar. And yet, the blaring echo of itty bitty Rachel's booming voice overpowered them all.

"I said it's still too close of a call, Rachel…"

"This is positively _absurd!_ On the off chance that it _had _been a close call, which I find _very _hard to believe, I am by far the superior violinist!"

"Oh, _give me a break," _interjected the Latina clarinetist who had mocked Rachel to the amusement of her two blonde counterparts, "Little Hebrew Hobbit and Lady-Face Hummel can have their catty little bitch fights all day long, and it still wouldn't change the fact that the woodwind section hasn't played anything but background for the past two concert seasons."

Kurt, standing in front of the podium by Rachel's side, finally piped up, "Sir, couldn't you consider…" only to be cut off by the voice of the Mohawked trombonist –_ Puckerman, _Blaine reminded himself – in the back row.

"Dude, totally. I mean, me, Evans, and Rolie Polie Olie over here (the wheelchair-bound trumpeter, Blaine was amused to see, gave a goofy grin and a little wave, looking thoroughly entertained by all the commotion), "have been blasting our lungs out on these brasses in the background, and we haven't done any brass-heavy pieces in like, forever. Plus, Jones is back here freaking killing it on the French horn every darn day, and what does she have to show for it? She's a regular Dennis Brain and no one even _hears_ her."

What started as a murmur of agreement from the chamber quickly escalated to shouts of aggressive, adamant demands from every section. Everywhere Blaine looked, in every corner of the crowd, small groups of musicians holding similar instruments were agreeing amongst themselves, shooting insults to the sections to their rights and lefts, standing up and bellowing out their newly agreed upon ultimatums in the direction of Will's podium.

Blaine just sat facing the keys, twiddling his fingers in his lap, and glanced around, all the noise and tumultuous fussing starting to make him a bit claustrophobic.

Beneath it all, he managed to just make out, "You all right there, bud?"

Finn, the percussionist, was leaning down to his ear with one hand on his shoulder, looking genuinely concerned.

"Oh, oh… yeah, yeah I'm fine," he stammered in response, nodding. "Is it… always like this?"

Finn just grinned knowingly and laughed. He patted Blaine on the back and muttered, "You'll get used to it."

Blaine gave him a quarter amused, three quarters reproachful look before closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. It was all he could to do keep himself from ducking down beneath the piano, hugging his legs to his chest, and attempting to tune it all out. Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, unfortunate past experiences had left Blaine with a lingering discomfort in rowdy, frustrated crowds of people.

Suddenly startling him to attention was the voice of Kurt, louder and more forceful than he had ever heard it before.

"SIR!"

Almost instantly, the noise receded. Blaine glanced around at the faces, and he had to admit: they looked as shocked as he felt. He had only known Kurt for a little while – not nearly as long as the rest of the chamber – but even so, there was something so foreign, almost alien, about hearing Kurt's normally soft, tentative voice used at such a volume.

Blaine saw, though, that Kurt didn't look as though he had just yelled at the top of his lungs. He looked as collected as ever, if anything just the tiniest bit frazzled from all the pandemonium surrounded him.

"Sir," he repeated, now that conversational tones could be heard, "Don't you think you could possibly divide the solos? Personally, I don't see what's wrong with having a different musician take the lead in every song we perform…" he glanced sideways when Rachel scoffed, gave her a look of frustration, then continued, "What's… what's so _wrong _with that?"

"It's good in theory Kurt," Will said in an understanding tone, speaking down to Kurt but addressing everyone, making sure the entire orchestra could hear, "But there are plenty of problems with that. First, it doesn't solve the problem of assigning a concertmaster, and second, we _have a reputation_ to uphold. Now you all know that each one of you plays a crucial role in this orchestra, but sometimes, you need to learn to step back and let the natural leaders take their place at the front of the line. That's just the way it works, you guys…"

"But sir…" Kurt's voice was unwavering. He was going to be heard. "You're always talking about how music is about expression, about, about… exploration, about… doing something not only because it's time-honored or, or traditional, but because it allows you to express what you believe to be the _future."_

Chancing a look at little Rachel, Blaine was astounded to see that even her hard, determined expression had softened. It wasn't necessarily sympathetic, or agreeable, but she was definitely listening.

"You talked about it in, in, in… your biography, in… in the hand-written letters you gave every single one of us when we all met for the first time," Blaine caught a small smile on Kurt's lips as he was charmed by the memory, "all those years ago… you talk about it at every concert, convention, panel, and gala we've ever been to. So… so why not give us that chance?"

If Blaine wasn't mistaken, Will looked slightly ashamed. Understanding, knowing… and definitely a little bit ashamed.

After a long moment, Will finally whispered, barely audible, "Give me a minute, all right guys?" before stepping down from the podium, taking a seat right there on the wood of the stage, and sifting through a folder, deep in consideration.

Quiet murmuring eventually started up again, but stayed at indoor level.

"I bet you're wondering how the heck we get anything done around here."

Blaine turned, straddling the bench again so that he could face Finn, who had pulled up a chair and taken a seat by the piano. "To be honest… yeah," he laughed, "I, uh… was pretty much thinking that, exactly."

Finn gave a noncommittal jerk of the head. "Sometimes I can hardly believe it either, what with all the drama that goes on," he said.

There was something about Finn that made Blaine feel as though he could talk openly with him. It wasn't that Blaine was generally introverted, but rather that he was still deciding who and who not to fully trust in this place. There were clearly certain people whose bad sides he did _not _want to be on.

So Blaine glanced over to where – to his surprise – Kurt and Rachel seemed to be speaking civilly and a little somberly face-to-face, then looked back at Finn and asked, "So, what's Kurt's story?"

"Hm? Oh! Uh… well…" Finn's countenance told Blaine that there was something he wanted to say, but decided not to. "For starters," he finally said, giving Blaine a small smile, "He's my stepbrother."

Not having seen that coming at all, Blaine raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Yeah," Finn said, stretching out his thick arms and scratching the back of his head, "His mother died years ago, and I never met my dad. Our parents met when we were in high school, got married, and before we knew it, we were all under one roof. I mean, we didn't become brothers until we were sixteen, but I guess you could say we grew up together."

Blaine glanced back over to the podium, where Kurt and Rachel were still standing, talking quietly with one another. There was something about their body language and expressions that told Blaine they were disagreeing on something, but respectfully. Blaine guessed that Kurt's words about Will and his overlooked philosophies had helped her cool down a bit.

"I feel bad," Blaine said, "They constantly argue. I'm pretty sure Rachel's gone at his throat every day I've been here so far. She's always so… brazen."

"Rachel's my girlfriend."

Blaine felt his stomach drop and a knot tighten somewhere in his chest. He turned back to Finn, instantly falling into a mess of, "Oh my gosh, I'm, I'm… I didn't mean anything by it, honestly…"

Finn broke into laughter and patted Blaine comfortingly on the shoulder. "Relax dude, I'm just messing with you," he grinned. "Well, kinda. She's my ex. On, ah… multiple occasions, she's been my ex. I'd like to think we're now exes for good."

Blaine raised an eyebrow and Finn immediately continued, "Oh, don't get me wrong, she really is something. She's… honestly, no one likes her when they first meet her. But after a while, you see a side of her that's… different. I don't know. Some people think I'm crazy when I say this, but, I really think she's misunderstood. Some of the stuff she does is totally uncalled for, that's true. But deep down… that's not who she is deep down. She's… she's different on the inside…"

Sadness grew in Finn's voice as he spoke. While Blaine didn't want to upset Finn in any way, he felt it only natural to ask, "So… what happened?"

"We just…" Finn shrugged. "We just weren't working, I guess. You can be in denial after one break up, maybe even two, but after three… four," he added with a humorless laugh, "You just can't deny it anymore. It's not… healthy, as my mom likes to say."

Blaine nodded. "I gotcha," he said. "Sorry, though. That… that couldn't have been easy."

Another shrug, and Finn just gave Blaine a look. _"That's life," _it said.

In a short moment of reflection, Blaine realized that he had learned more about Rachel from Finn's stories than about Kurt, the initial topic of discussion. He found it mildly annoying when Will took the floor again just before he could ask Finn again, but in a moment was extremely curious about what his final verdict would be.

Will called the group to attention, and Blaine saw Rachel and Kurt finish up their quiet discussion, nod at each other in what looked acknowledgement of each other's words, and take their seats.

"I want to thank all of you… _all _of you," he repeated, "For your work today, especially with Handel and Mozart. I gave you those pieces a month ago at most, and they were both spectacular. Rachel and Kurt…" he looked straight ahead at the two natural nemeses who, for the first time since Blaine had been around to see them, looked as if they had set their personal issues with each other aside, even if just temporarily, "You two were absolutely phenomenal today. I commend you both. Truly."

They didn't look at each other, but both smiled gratefully up at Will for the compliment, Rachel adding a vehement nod of the head.

"But…"

Silence.

"It wasn't enough for me to make up my mind. And I'm sincerely sorry for that. I have, however, finally come up with a way to settle this, once and for all."

Will stepped back, huffed out the day's exhaustions in one long breath, then finally straightened up to make the announcement, speaking directly to Rachel and Kurt.

"On February first, we are going to have one final competition. Solos. Under two and a half minutes. Any piece you want, by any composer, in any style. The only guideline I have for you is…" Will paused, made sure he was looking at the competitors dead on, and said, "Show me what you're made of."

"The chosen soloist," he continued, after a short silence, "Will not only be guaranteed to be featured for the April Concert, but he or she will also compile seventy-five percent of this year's concert set list."

There was no anticipation in the silence that followed. Only shock. Blaine could almost feel it in the air: this was something that had _never _happened before.

"The soloist will choose songs from any era, by any composer, that feature any instrument or section they would like. If the winner wants to do a concert completely centered around strings, he or she can do a concert completely centered around strings. If he or she wants to feature the woodwinds, we'll feature the woodwinds. If he or she wants a number featuring strings, a number that's heavily brass, a partial orchestra, a quintet… we'll make it happen. We'll express, and we'll explore."

"It'll be December in a few days, you guys. February may seem far off, but with Christmas break just around the corner and New Year's on its way, it's actually a lot closer than you think. So gear up. Get ready to show us what you've got."

Will inquired with his eyes if Kurt and Rachel understood, and both nodded their confirmation.

"That's it guys," he said quietly, a sense of finality in his voice. "That's it for tonight. I'll see you all on Monday. Enjoy your weekend."

* * *

By the time Blaine left Finn with a friendly clap on the back (he wasn't even going to attempt to reach his shoulder), sidled into the backstage studios to use the restroom, and dropped the last of his paperwork into the basket outside Will's office, the stage had gone completely silent.

Blaine took his time packing up. He liked the silence, the time to think. He liked occasionally being the last one to leave the theatre before the wandering custodians locked it up for the night. Being onstage alone, at the end of the night, not a soul in sight… it was like a little secret. From whom he was keeping it didn't matter, why he was keeping it wasn't important in the slightest. It was just something he had found in his time here that calmed him… that was only his.

That was, up until that night.

At first, he thought those notes had been playing in his head. The song, after all, was one of his favorites...

But then, he made his way around the curtain that separated the darkness of backstage from the podium, the chairs, the music stands, and the beautiful concert grand piano all drowning in light.

The piano.

There was Kurt, sitting, back straight, right hand positioned above the black and white keys with a kind of formality that Blaine's hands would never have, at the concert grand piano, intently plucking out the introduction of the sweet duet Blaine had heard so many times… and looking… a little sad.

Blaine wasn't sure what made him do it. He wasn't thinking at all, really. He was just walking, humming along with the melody in his mind – the melody he knew so very well – until he had reached the piano and had taken a seat by Kurt's side.

Kurt's long, slender fingers graced the surface of each key as he played those seven somber bass notes, leading into the upper part…

Right hand loose, slack, but still precise, Blaine played those same seven notes, three octaves higher. And for the first time since he had sat down, he and Kurt made eye contact.

Without breaking that contact, Kurt brought his hand blindly back to the keyboard and played a rearrangement of those same seven notes, this time, more acceptance. More finality. Without saying a word, Kurt was begging Blaine to play more.

An octave higher Blaine went, this time with both hands, and played nine notes that were so similar to those previous seven, would have been almost exactly the same, had it not been for the lift from a dark, grave, minor key, to a suddenly hopeful, almost inquisitive major key.

A smile played at one corner of Kurt's lips, but he held it back as he finally took his shining blue eyes off of Blaine and onto the keyboard as he used both hands to lay down the final poignant, regretful chord of the introduction.

Perhaps a little bit earlier than the time signature indicated, both of Blaine's hands jumped back into the piece, and he was twinkling away at the highest possible octave in that spirited, yet slightly suspicious little tune. The one that marked where this ever-mysterious piece _truly_ began.

And that was when Kurt smiled. He looked straight into Blaine's eyes, his own dancing with the reflections of the spotlights high above them, and smiled.

Beaming back at him, Blaine continued bouncing along playfully in the minor key, easing right into the six notes of the waltz timing…

And Kurt came in strong and powerful with the lower part, every note resounding a hundred times over in the empty theatre as Blaine's fingers flew up and down the keys, the impossibly quick changes of his right hand producing the endless allegro that was the soul of the song while Kurt's deep, commanding melody was the body.

Within a few seconds, the song's climactic pinnacle began to quiet down, and before Blaine knew it Kurt's fingers were flying at high-speed up the keys, one note following the next in record timing until he was leaning directly over Blaine, reaching far so that his index and middle fingers could trill the B and C, like the buzzing of a bumble bee or the flapping of a hummingbird's wings.

He gradually eased out of the endless drumming rhythm of the trill, smiling into Blaine's eyes and realizing that their faces were now just inches apart.

Almost as if on cue, both broke into laughter.

"I take it you've seen the fantastic piece of work that is _Corpse Bride_?" Blaine asked as Kurt pulled back, then rested his forearm on the open lid of the piano while he nodded.

"Sure have," he said. He held up his chin in the palm of his hand. "I've seen anything and everything Tim Burton, and you can hold me to that. Sometimes, I…" he chuckled, and subconsciously slipped two fingers beneath the neckline of his shirt where he gently rubbed back and forth against his clavicle bone, "I feel like a little Tim Burton character myself."

Blaine mimed an investigator of sorts, stroking a nonexistent beard as he carefully scrutinized Kurt's face and nodded, "Yeah… yeah, I could see that."

Kurt shook with silent laughter, that same warm smile still gracing his lips. "Right after _Nightmare Before Christmas, _I'd say _Corpse Bride _is… probably my favorite. Mainly because of the music," he said, plucking out a few random notes on the piano.

Blaine hummed in agreement, playing around on the upper octaves, improvising a little harmony with Kurt's made-up piece down by the middle C.

"So I, uh…" Blaine cleared his throat, and Kurt glanced up from the keys, "I had no idea that you and Finn were stepbrothers. I don't think you two have ever left here together," he said.

Kurt just smiled and nodded. "Yeah… yeah, we are. Well, we both still live in Woodlawn, but he likes to hang out with some of the other guys after rehearsals. They just goof around, they're good guys," he said.

"What about you?" Blaine wondered, aloud.

"Me? Oh, I don't know. I'm kind of antisocial," he laughed, then quickly jumped to clarify, "Well not really antisocial, I like people well enough, but… I don't know. I like being alone, too. Just… sitting and thinking is pretty underrated, I think. But see, Finn's the kind of guy…"

It was impossible for Kurt to _not _capture one hundred and ten percent of Blaine's attention when he spoke. Sitting there, against the ivory black of the piano and beneath the blazing stage lights, his skin looked white as marble. Here he was – talking about his stepbrother and how he couldn't sit still, couldn't go a day without socializing – and Blaine was entranced by the most seemingly insignificant things about him. The way his feathery, light brown hair wisped from side to side every time he moved his head, they way he would punctuate any key points by either widening or narrowing his eyes, the hand gestures he used over and over and again, and the ones he only used once in a while…

He'd had almost five weeks to get to know Kurt now, five weeks of the two of them walking to the lobby after rehearsals together – not every night, but a considerable amount of them – but usually, it was just small talk. They'd talk about the latest pieces they were rehearsing, any interesting happenings from that day's work, etc. That, and, Kurt would always ask a lot of questions about Blaine's life as a freelance performer. He also had a habit of diverting any attention on himself back to Blaine.

But none of that had stopped Blaine from really seeing him, though. Seeing the way he would massage his collar bone when he was nervous, the way he would take turns rubbing each of his fingers with his thumb, easing away the callused indentations from the strings of his violin as they left the theatre…

And now, he had seen him in a whole new way. In, if he dared say it to himself, an intimate way.

He had never seen Kurt play the piano before. He had never seen Kurt smile… like _that_ before.

"… but we still get to hang out. We don't have all that much in common, but… you know, you love 'em just the same."

_Love who? What? Oh, Finn… _"Yeah, yeah, I… I gotcha. So, I, uh…" Blaine hoisted himself up from the bench and ran a hand through his curls, and _He's totally grinning because he knows I'm flustered… why the hell am I flustered? Oh my gosh, stop it! _"I guess I learned three things about you today."

It was the best he could come up with.

Kurt, however, certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. "Really?" he asked, closing the piano lid and standing up as well.

Blaine nodded and gave him a shy, "Mmhm."

Kurt wandered around to the back of the piano, picking up the quilted cover and going through fold after fold, searching for the red tag. "And what might those be?" he asked, his mouth a playful smirk.

"Well, for one," Blaine indicated with his index finger, "Finn is your stepbrother."

"Very true," Kurt smiled, pulling the cover over the shiny black surface of the piano.

"Two," he said, holding up a '2' for Kurt, who was now walking around the piano, to Blaine's side, "That you like Tim Burton movies."

Kurt put his back to the edge of the piano, then hoisted himself up so that he was sitting atop it, where he casually crossed his legs, and nodded in agreement. "This is true. And three?" he asked.

"Three… that you're leaps and bounds better than me at playing the piano," Blaine laughed. He walked over to where Kurt was sitting on the edge of the concert grand, resting his elbow on the cover and supporting his head there as Kurt insisted, "Um, false. Completely false."

"Nope. No, no, no… completely true…"

"False," Kurt pressed on, blushing a little, Blaine saw. "You forget, I've been watching you play for over a month now. I can't even look at you pounding out Pachelbel without wanting to chop off my own hands!"

Genuinely taken aback but also thoroughly amused, Blaine just exclaimed, "Wow! _Well_ then…"

Kurt's laugh, Blaine was beginning to realize, was truly infectious. "It's true!" he insisted, uncrossing his legs, then tucking one ankle behind the other and swinging them back and forth, like a child on a swing.

"But we can't have that," Blaine said, folding his arms across his chest, "Because then who would we have to put that Rachel Berry in her place?"

Blaine mirrored that same playful smirk Kurt had used on him just minutes ago. Kurt just widened his eyes in mock alarm, whispering, "Shhh… even walls have ears…"

Blaine shook his head, then took a moment, just smiling at Kurt, who smiled right back.

"So," he said, suddenly, placing his hands on his hips, and taking a step back towards Kurt's spot on the piano, "Any killer ideas for you big solo yet?"

Kurt sighed, gazing off into the seemingly endless rows of red, velvety seats in the still fully lit theatre. "Not yet," he said, "But I'll be on the watch for it. If you have any brilliant ideas," he added with a glance back at Blaine, "let me know."

Blaine saluted, causing Kurt to shake with silent laughter once again. "Guess we'd better get going, huh?" he finally said, taking in another deep breath, and letting it out slowly, purposefully.

And it wasn't until Kurt had said those words that Blaine had realized, he _really _didn't want to go.

But, Kurt was right. They had to sooner or later.

Blaine had been standing directly in front of Kurt at this point, and looked up to see that Kurt was looking at him, almost expectantly, that same sprightly little smile playing on his lips. Suddenly, he held out his arms, motioning for Blaine to come towards him.

Blaine did just that, a little bit confused, until Kurt put his hands on Blaine's shoulders. Blaine grinned and laughed a little when he finally understood. He took Kurt's slender waist gently in his hands and lifted him off of the piano, setting him neatly back on his feet.

Kurt thanked Blaine with a look – _that adorable look – _and began to gather up his things.

Consistent with their normal routine, Kurt waited for Blaine to finish packing up, and they left the theatre together, Kurt, as per usual, staying midtown to run a few errands before heading back to Woodlawn for the night.

They shared their goodbyes, and Kurt began to make his way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the nearby subway station. And it wasn't until then – when Blaine saw Kurt, wrapped up in his coat, heading deeper into the city lights – that he realized his hands were still tingling from having lifted Kurt off of that piano, and his shoulders were still a little warmer than normal from Kurt having rested his hands there for support.

And he really, _really _didn't want to go. Not yet.

"Kurt!"

Blaine bolted down the several yards of sidewalk Kurt had already covered, and unnecessarily so, as Kurt had turned around the instant Blaine had called his name (_almost as if he was listening, waiting for it…), _but Blaine was starting to realize that his most bumbling moments were the ones that seemed to make Kurt's smile the biggest.

"Yes, Blaine?" Kurt chuckled as Blaine approached him, leaning against the nearest shop window, panting for breath.

"I, uh…" Blaine laughed in spite of himself. He couldn't even get a sentence out. He held up one finger, motioning for Kurt to wait a moment while he caught his breath.

"I, uh… have you ever been to Chelsea?" he finally asked, still breathing heavily, but finally starting to settle down.

"Chelsea, like, the Chelsea District?"

Blaine nodded.

"Mmhm. Once or twice. Just kind of passing through, though," he said, waving a hand dismissively, "I haven't spent any real time down there… why do you ask?" he added, Blaine thinking he had picked up on just the tiniest glint of knowingness in his eye.

Thankfully for Blaine, his breathing had finally evened out, sparing him (hopefully) any further embarrassment.

"Well, I don't know if you know this, but Chelsea has like, eighty million really neat art galleries."

Kurt instantly mocked skepticism, leaning in and sharing, "I heard it was eighty _trillion, _but, you know how the truth gets stretched around this city."

"Oh, well, don't take my word for it, I could be a little off," Blaine teased. "But anyway, I'm heading down there tomorrow… mainly, ah… for my own… personal, amusement, but…" _Stammering, always the stammering, damn it… _"Looking at crazy-awesome paintings and political statements in the form of modern art is a lot more fun when you have someone there who can assure you, 'Don't worry, not understanding the symbolism does _not _make you an idiot.'"

Kurt was shaking his head, grinning. "Well, I'm going to have to agree with you on that one, Blaine Anderson. And, if you're inviting me, I would be more than happy to tag along and assure you after each stop that you are _not _an idiot."

"That… that's… thank you, Kurt. It would… it would really make me happy."

"Me too," he smiled. He said it so softly, had Blaine not been watching him, he probably wouldn't have heard it. "Oh, um… I guess I should give you my number…"

Kurt was digging through his messenger bag before Blaine could even form the thought, _God bless you, Kurt, for sparing me the awkwardness of asking. _Blaine pulled out his phone as well and they did a quick trade, entering each other's numbers, and switching back.

"Well then," Kurt said, digging his hands into his coat pockets for warmth, "Give me a call tomorrow morning, and we can meet up?"

"That, ah… yeah. Sure thing."

Kurt had already begun to turn around and head towards the next crosswalk. He waved back at Blaine, who could practically hear the Cheshire Cat grin on his face as he called out, "Have a good night, Blaine Anderson!"

"Oh, tha… yeah, you too!"

And that night, Blaine Anderson was grinning like an idiot, all the way back to Morris Park.

**Thanks for trucking through this with me, everyone. Hope you're enjoying it! (: **


	4. Chapter 4

The Soloist – Chapter IV

_Bach: Suite for Solo Cello No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: I. Prélude_

"Blaine! Dude, get your lazy ass outta bed and check this shit out!"

"Mmm… wha… Ah! _Damn it_, Wes…"

Bundled under a mound of blankets, Blaine winced when his blinds flew up and garish daylight streamed into the room. In another moment, though, it was blocked by the pajama-clad figure at his bedside, the one climbing onto the bed and attempting, quite frantically, to extract him from his cocoon of pillows and covers.

Blaine swatted him away clumsily, eyes adjusting achingly to the light pouring through his window. "Geez, man, what's all the…"

Wes grabbed Blaine by the shoulders and ordered through gritted teeth, "Just… look… already!"

Blaine stumbled to the window while Wes steered him with his hands on his shoulders, and, sure enough, went still when he saw…

"Holy…"

Snow. At least, Blaine decided, four inches already on the ground, and falling like Blaine had never seen snow fall in his life. Each flake tumbling down from the clouded, early-morning sky was soft, white, and so very _huge_… Blaine could scarcely see Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli's house, and it was only just across the street. The front steps were covered, the sidewalk indistinguishable from the road…

"I know, man! This is crazy…" Wes laughed and meandered away from the window, hands on his hips, grinning. "Well," he sighed, his facial expression suddenly changing from one of giddy excitement to one of slight uncertainty, "Sarah changed our plans," he said.

"Yeah?" Blaine asked, slowly turning away from the window to face Wes, having a little trouble taking his eyes off the catastrophic white-out going on outside.

"She's taking me ice skating."

Blaine smiled. "Well, that'll be fun… _What?"_ he asked, his voice a playful sing-songy whine when Wes just shrugged, dismissively. "You _love_ ice skating," Blaine reminded him.

"_Exactly_," Wes sighed, beginning to pace back and forth in front of Blaine's dresser, head thrown back in exasperation, "She's freaking _perfect._"

Blaine just stared at him, confused as ever, and eventually laughed, "So… what exactly is the problem here?"

He pulled back a little when Wes's face fell, and he suddenly looked sincerely troubled. He moved to Blaine's bed and sat down at the foot of it, clasping his hands together and resting his chin there, eyes closed.

"Man… just… what? What… what is it?"

"You just…" Wes shook his head, laughed a little in spite of himself, and stood up. "You wouldn't get it, man."

"Oh, come on, try…"

"I thought Kim was perfect too."

That name always grabbed Blaine's attention. Wes's Envy Adams. Rarely did Blaine and Wes refer to her by her true name, Kim. And it was sometimes scary to Blaine how much the memory of that girl still seemed to sting Wes so hard, even though it had been so long since she left… But Blaine always had to remind himself that Wes was right; Blaine _wouldn't _get it, because Blaine had never really _had _a real relationship. He had dated, sure, but the longest he ever stayed with one person was four, five months, and that didn't really count. He couldn't empathize. But, he wanted to. He really, sincerely wanted to, more than almost anything…

"Can we talk about this?" Blaine suddenly asked. Wes looked a little surprised at first, but then, just smiled fondly at Blaine, and sighed.

"You know, I'd… yeah, that'd actually be…"

Before he could say another word, Wes was cut off by the grand, commanding, famous first notes of Mozart's most notorious piece in a low quality yet obscenely loud blast of audio from Blaine's outdated flip-style cell phone, which was resting on his nightstand.

Wes laughed, and Blaine stepped back to check the caller ID…

_Kurt. Oh God, what do I do… answer the phone, you idiot… _

"Hey, man, I've gotta… ah…"

"It's fine," Wes grinned, slipping his hands into the pockets of his flannels and heading out into the hallway, "We'll talk later. Go get yo' man…"

"He's not my… God, Wes! Nothing's going on!"

"Uh-huh…"

"Wes!"

Already back in his own bedroom, Wes just hollered, "Pick up the phone, you babbling moron!"

Blaine huffed in frustration, composed himself, then flipped open his phone and answered, "Hel… hi, um… good morning!"

_That laugh, _he thought, and a smile crept across his lips when Kurt's soft chuckling died down and he said, his voice scratchy and different through the speaker of Blaine's tragically old phone, "I'm sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No! No, no, you're good," Blaine said, absentmindedly beginning to pace back and forth in front his bedroom window, "My roommate took care of that," he laughed, "in a fit of excitement over all this crazy snow…"

Blaine heard Kurt gasp on the other side of the line, then pipe up, "I know! It's _gorgeous, _isn't it?"

Blaine indulged in a few seconds of silence and looked, once again, out at the winter wonderland surrounding him. It had shocked, him, sure, and it was quite a sight to behold, but of all the thoughts that had raced through his head when Wes had dragged him out of bed and over to the window, not one had approached the prospect as Kurt had just approached it – as something "gorgeous," _beautiful _to behold.

The thought, for one reason or another, made Blaine smile, almost shyly, as he whispered back, "Yeah. Yeah, it… it really is. Like Narnia out there." _Stupid, idiot, where the hell did you pull _that _from? _

"Aw," Kurt cooed through the phone, yanking Blaine out of that place in his head where he so often dragged himself to be mentally reprimanded for all the dumb things that escaped his un-chaperoned mouth. And before Blaine could even open it again, Kurt continued, "Or like Hogsmeade, when the kids all, you know, go shopping during Christmas break…"

…

_Holy shit. _

"But anyway," Kurt said, when Blaine found himself too dumbstruck to respond, "I wanted to see if you were still okay with our plan. I just, I mean it's pretty crazy out there, and I wanted to just, just let you know that if you wanted to, you know, reschedule or whatever… that, that's totally fine."

"Wha… oh!" Blaine ran his free hand through his bed head of unruly curls, and continued to pace back and forth. "Oh, I… I mean, I wouldn't want you to do anything you were uncomfortable with," he said, trying hard not to let that feeling of disappointment grip his stomach, "so if it looks, you know, icy, or dangerous, or anything, and if you don't want to, you know… we can… call it off…"

"Oh, no, I'd… Blaine, I'd… I _definitely _still want to go. If you do, that is," he said. And he sounded so… _hopeful, _Blaine supposed was the best way to describe it. And at Kurt's voice alone, any disappointment that had been ready to creep up on Blaine had vanished, leaving just Blaine, and how very ready he was to see Kurt again.

"I'd _love _to, Kurt," he said, grinning, as he fell backwards onto his bed and relaxed atop his now flattened nest of pillows and blankets. "Even if it means… plowing through Narnia," he laughed. He was happy to hear Kurt laughing as well.

"That's… that's great, that's awesome, I… I can't wait," he said. "So, where shall I meet you, good sir?"

Blaine huffed out a breath, excitedly. "Corner of 11th and 25th. We'll start there and…" he laughed, and let his free arm rest, palm up, beside his head, "let the icy wind carry us where it may."

Blaine could hear Kurt's smile when he answered, "Sounds like a plan. How's 10:00?"

"10:00's perfect. See you soon, Kurt."

"All righty," Kurt laughed, "Bye, Blaine."

The line cut, but Blaine continued holding the phone to his ear and smiling up at the ceiling while he watched the shadowy image of the snowfall from his window. He couldn't pinpoint a single reason as to why Kurt made him feel like this. Excited, and hopeful, and happy, and so very _alive_…

Finally, he whispered, "Bye, Kurt," before hopping out of bed, anxious for the day to begin.

* * *

The streets of Chelsea were surprisingly lively for such a hazardous weather day, but municipal services had done a pretty impressive job of clearing the roads. There was a kind of pleasantness in the air, though, and Blaine attributed it to several things. For one thing, the potentially treacherous conditions seemed to be keeping most cars off the streets, so the buzz and bustle of the people on the snow-covered sidewalks created a new, soothing kind of ambience in the atmosphere. Additionally, the snowfall was heavy and steady as ever, and people walked up and down the street, in and out of cafes with steaming cups of hot coffee in their hands, dressed in scarves and hats and coats…

Blaine had gotten so pleasantly distracted by his surroundings… the icicles dangling from shop awnings like stalactites in a cave, the thick, steady snowfall and the way each flake contributed to the covering of the sidewalk, the children outside the bookstores who giggled mischievously and aimed at Blaine when he got caught in the middle of their snowball fight, making him laugh and toss a loose handful back at them… that he had forgotten he was en route to a very special destination. His body must have known this all along, though, even when his mind had meandered away, because he approached the corner of 11th Avenue and 25th Street just as if he had been paying perfect attention all along. The only difference being, it wasn't the street signs that made him stop in his tracks, feet planted two inches deep in the un-shoveled sidewalk, and stare.

Had Kurt's cheeks not been so flushed from the cold, their redness and rosiness spreading from his prominent, childlike nose all the way back to the tips of his ears, Blaine may not have spotted him so soon. Or at least, wouldn't have spotted his face. The rest of him was so white that it blended right into his surroundings, but did unimaginable things to his eyes. Even from his considerable distance Blaine could see how big and bright and shining and so very _blue_ they were, and how they seemed curious and full of wonder as he leaned out from under the awning, one gloved hand on the steel bar of the nearby scaffolding for support, and looked up at the sky, letting the snow dust his hair, his navy blue scarf, and the shoulders of his thick black coat.

Without thinking, Blaine moved a little closer. Kurt was either so lost in thought or so entranced by his surroundings that he took no notice, but Blaine couldn't decide which one it was. The more he studied Kurt's face, in fact, the less certain he became of, well, everything. Because _Kurt_ looked uncertain. He didn't look sad, and he wasn't confused, and he didn't necessarily look like he was looking for something, but there was something in how large and clear his eyes appeared in what little sunlight was reflected in the snow beds, and in how pale and pink and slightly parted his lips were as he visibly exhaled in the icy morning air that made him seem almost… hopelessly resigned to something. Like he was… settling for something and accepting something, both at the same time, Blaine reasoned.

Suddenly, Kurt smiled. Without any warning and or transition at all, his entire face lit up, and he looked down at his feet, then looked back up, and mouthed, "Hi," with a small wave in Blaine's direction. And only then did Blaine realize that Kurt had been looking right in his direction, for… he had no idea how long, and the thought terrified him. But, evidently, amused Kurt, who had slid his hands into his coat pockets and begun making his way through the snow, toward Blaine.

"Sorry," he said, pulling his scarf a little tighter around his neck. "How long were you standing there?" he asked, smiling suspiciously.

Blaine laughed and shuffled his feet a little as he stammered, "Not… oh, not… not that long. Sorry," he added, "It's so weird, I can barely see you…"

Kurt laughed in agreement; their faces couldn't have been more than a foot away from each other, but the thickness of the snow curtain between them was, in a word, incredible.

Walking backwards toward the first building, Kurt just laughed a little breathlessly, icy air coming in a puff through his lips, "Better get started then."

Blaine trudged through the snow, to his side, and then, as if by some silent agreement, they bolted through the several yards of snow-covered pavement that led to the first gallery, a three-story building of red brick with a green awning and large, Palladian windows on which were displayed in black lettering names like May Stevens, Breanne Trammell, Klara Kristalova, Robyn O'Neil… artists' names. Definitely, artists' names.

The really incredible thing about Kurt, Blaine had come to notice, was that he could make Blaine feel so nervous, yet so comfortable at the same time. Blaine would get so excitable around him, but then, suddenly and out of nowhere, Blaine would find himself conversing with Kurt about anything and everything without filter, just saying things because they came to mind, because he thought they were interesting, because he felt like Kurt would appreciate them. Add paintings to the walls, drawings to the hallways, and sculptures in every other corner, and Blaine may very well have been the happiest man in New York City.

Kurt made an effort to appreciate feminist art in a way few men did, at least to Blaine's knowledge and experience. When the two of them stepped into the first space – May Stevens – Kurt immediately stopped in front of the artist's statement. He and Blaine both read quietly, Kurt whispering along as they did, and then began to move from painting to painting. And even though neither Blaine nor Kurt found Stevens' works outwardly provocative in the slightest, Kurt jumped right into an animated spiel about Fresno State, and the 1970s, and how Judy Chicago and her army of vagina warriors (yes, he referred to them, with a kind of humorous affection, as vagina warriors) started the Feminist Art Program and were basically the reason the monumental "Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?" essay of 1971 was published… the kinds of things that brought him back his two years at community college. Things Blaine forgot he knew about, forgot he cared about.

It was the same when they passed through the eerie charcoal landscapes of Robyn O'Neil, the brightly-colored, almost cartoonish paintings and 3-D installations of Breanne Trammell, and finally (Kurt's favorite display in building number one) Klara Kristalova's grotesque, fantastical, wonderfully peculiar sculptures and statues of trees with sharp, sinister limbs, miniature pieces of furniture, little girls with big eyes and dark black hair… "Like if a Dr. Seuss book was made into a Tim Burton movie," as Kurt had described them. And Blaine had to agree, that had been his favorite display thus far as well.

They covered realism, impressionism, pointillism, every other 'ism' in the book, photography, sculpture, statuary, ceramics… and Blaine learned from Kurt, and Kurt learned from Blaine, and they shared with each other. And Kurt was happy to continually assure Blaine that not grasping every profundity of a piece did not make him an idiot. "It just makes you less pretentious than a lot of other people," he joked.

Hours felt like minutes as they roamed, endless conversation carrying them from place to place.

There was one room, though, on the top floor of a small building near the corner of 11th and 23rd, where the conversation stopped. And time stopped. And Kurt stopped, and Blaine stopped behind him, the unforeseen shift in feeling making him almost afraid to move. But when, finally, Kurt seemed able to move his feet again, he and Blaine began taking slow, wary steps into an otherwise empty gallery, reverently approaching the wall-sized images that had so ominously greeted them when they had entered.

The artist's name, which had been printed in plain, black lettering on the wall just opposite the entrance, was Halim Al Karim. The display, which had been printed in fine, blue lettering just beneath it, had been entitled "Witness from Baghdad."

The pictures (most of which were large and rectangular, some probably four feet wide and eight feet tall) surrounded Blaine and Kurt as soon as they entered, and stood resolute in their intimidation, no matter, Blaine began to realize, where he looked. But the vulnerability he felt as the pictures closed in around him was nothing compared what the images, themselves, evoked inside him.

They were faces, mostly women's faces, colored so oddly and manipulated in such simple yet provocative ways, Blaine felt as if staring into each set of eyes was like staring into the soul of someone who had been so forgotten and neglected and tormented and tortured that she could no longer move, or speak, or even cry for help other than with a look from her desperate, pleading eyes. One face, while the outlines of the neck and the hair were a faded, blurred-out grey, was colored in neon green. The eyes, though, were blue, and pure, and human as ever, but outlined in thick black contours… and the mouth. There was no mouth. Well, there could have been, but it was covered with something that almost looked like a strip of duct tape. It was something, some kind of material slapped over the ghostly figure's mouth to keep her from speaking about all the horrors she'd seen.

One after another stared at Blaine as he made his way through the display, one similar to the first but with a face in bright blue, three in a row on black backgrounds looking skeletal beneath strange, nearly sheer white veils, one no more than a shadow of a face but with clear, innocent eyes, another like the first but with a face in dark blue and a thick strip of some black material, again, stretched across her mouth as some statement of wicked oppression. Three faces that weren't faces at all, just blurry black figures smudged out on a white surface, photographs so drenched in water or oil that the true images had all but faded away completely, faceless, voiceless, powerless. Two faces that were beautiful, pure, _happy, _one red, one blue, both with bright hopeful eyes… but both only just visible beneath long black cloths stretched out across each canvas, hiding the beauty and snatching away the freedom of the women beneath them. One face of a child – perhaps a boy – looking off to the side, curious as children are, just wanting to know why. Why the shining patch of black material was stretched across his young, faultless lips.

Blaine wasn't sure how long he had taken, moving from picture to picture, feeling almost guilty in the security and balance of his own life he stared into the eyes that represented the millions of others who were not so lucky... but when had passed almost every single one, and was standing alone at the end of one wall, he realized that his hands were trembling. Slight, but trembling. He knew he was pale, his face felt cold, but his neck was warm, and Kurt… Kurt was no longer by his side. Blaine looked up from his trembling hands and glanced around the room, and so many pairs of eyes stared back at him, all large and frightened and pleading, but not Kurt's…

And then, Blaine saw him. Just the back of him, in a little room off to the side of the main gallery, with one last "Witness from Baghdad" inside.

Walking in and standing behind Kurt who was still as stone, Blaine froze before the image.

Like the others, it looked like a photograph, only manipulated to appear print-like, but this one, this one was different. There was no face. Just a body. A woman's body, colored a dulled-down neon green, naked and stretched spread-eagled as though her wrists and ankles were bound by something, her head barely visible from the angle of the picture, mostly concealed as she lay flat on her back. And even though that was all there was to the picture, even though there were no imminent signs of danger, every muscle and tendon and joint of the body in itself was screaming out to be delivered from whatever torment had just been given or whatever pain was about to come. And Blaine made such an effort to suppress the tears stinging the backs of his eyes, he was ashamed of himself when he finally noticed that tears were falling freely from Kurt's.

Yet, he hadn't made a sound.

Blaine took another step forward, so that he was standing just beside him, and then, almost without thinking, slipped a hand into Kurt's, slowly and deliberately wrapping his long, delicate fingers in his own, which were, by comparison, short, and rough. But almost immediately, Blaine was assured that Kurt didn't care in the slightest how short or rough his fingers happened to be. He wanted them, interlaced with his own, and he needed them, and he was grateful for them, and he squeezed back, just to let Blaine know.

They had walked together, hand-in-hand, out of the gallery, both lowering their gazes respectfully as they passed each penetrating set of eyes one last time. They descended the stairs to the bottom floor of the building, which was decidedly more populated than the top, then sidled through the glass door and back out into the snowfall, neither speaking a word.

They began walking down 11th, still hand in hand, when, after a considerable while, Kurt said softly, "It really puts everything into perspective… doesn't it…"

It wasn't really a question, and though he couldn't exactly label it, Blaine knew what it was. A seeking of recognition, really. And without even needing confirmation from Kurt, Blaine grasped a part of it. He knew that Kurt was, partially, referring to all of the drama that had been happening in the chamber for the past few weeks. And he understood, and agreed, to a certain extent, that what they had just seen really did put all that had happened to them into a new perspective. But part of Blaine also knew that that hadn't been all Kurt was talking about. He was certain that there were other things, things Blaine might never know about, that had also been put into a new perspective for Kurt.

Without knowing how to address such a thing in words, though, Blaine decided to skip it. So he hummed softly in agreement, let a moment of silence pass between them, then gave Kurt's hand a squeeze and said, "Thank you, Kurt. For… for coming with me."

Kurt squeezed back, and smiled at him, tear tracks still glistening down his cheeks, but eyes almost dry. "It was my pleasure, Blaine. Really, it was. You're honestly the first person I've met in my twenty-one years of living who will talk willingly about this stuff with me. It's refreshing, can't lie," he laughed. "Finn won't speak on most subjects that aren't football, bad jokes, and music, and my dad… my dad is many things, many _fantastic_ things, but a deep thinker is not one of 'em."

When Blaine laughed and cocked an eyebrow, Kurt quickly added, teasingly defensive, "Oh, he's the first to admit it, so I'm allowed to say that."

"You guys are close?" Blaine asked. "You and your dad."

Kurt nodded, fervently. "Mmhm. Very close. He was pretty much my best friend growing up. Then, of course, Finn came along. But even he and I didn't get along at first. We've definitely had our ups and downs, Finn and me…"

"Oh, trust me," Blaine said, gesturing forward to let Kurt know they were crossing the street, "I understand. I have an older brother – six years older than me – and as close as we are… brothers just have those moments." Kurt rolled his eyes and sighed in agreement, and Blaine continued, "One minute you think you never want to see each other again, and the next you're… you're crying in each other's arms… thanking God that… that he's there to hold you…"

"Sounds like he's pretty important to you," Kurt said.

"Oh, he's… one of my best friends," Blaine admitted. "Almost all our issues arose from the classic "Blaine, why can't you be more like Cooper?" speeches I got from Dad every day since I could walk."

Kurt gave a murmur of sympathy and a sad, empathetic smile.

"Ah, it's okay though," Blaine assured him. "He set the standards high, I'll give him that. And those speeches have definitely lessened over the years."

Blaine pulled Kurt along as he turned one more corner, and finally, they were just a few yards away from a popular little sandwich shop. Blaine was glad to see that, despite the sudden changes in weather, it looked like business was as good as ever.

"So. How do you feel about food?" Blaine asked.

Kurt hummed hungrily, then said, swinging Blaine's hand as he pulled them along, "There's only one thing that cheers me up when family and music fail. Food."

Blaine laughed, knowing exactly what Kurt meant, and almost slid several times along the several slippery yards of sidewalk leading to the homey, beveled-glass front door.

* * *

It was hard to believe that just a under thirty minutes ago, both Blaine and Kurt had been two silently crying bundles of emotion. The transition from that to where they were now had happened so smoothly, Blaine couldn't even pinpoint a single moment when he had felt the change occur. He knew now, though, that having seen Kurt cry only made his smile all the more breathtaking.

And it had been all smiles over lunch, which, both decided, constituted the popularity the humble little shop obviously already had. It was a little on the crowded side, but truthfully, all the better – they were warm and cozy in no time, and had hung their coats and scarves on the backs of their chairs at a small table in the corner near a lit and much appreciated fireplace.

For the most part, the conversation stayed on the subject of families, and Blaine loved hearing about Kurt's.

"Very loving, very excitable, and very loud" was how Kurt had described them. He talked of the small pub his family owned in Woodlawn – a place called Flanagan's – and how his great grandparents had built it from the ground up when they arrived in New York City from Ireland in the early 20th Century. This brought Blaine to mention curiously that Hummel didn't sound Irish at all, and Kurt went on to explain that fifty percent of his Irishness came from his mother's side of the family. Hummel, as Blaine had guessed, came from his father's partially German descent.

He affectionately poked fun at Rory and discussed several of his other cousins, all of whom sounded like incredibly upbeat, lively people.

"Honestly," Blaine said, when Kurt paused to take a sip of his steaming non-fat mocha, "They sound like an Irish version of my family."

"Interesting," Kurt laughed, setting down the steaming cup. "And you're… Italian, if I remember correctly…?"

"Oh did, did I mention that already?"

"At some point, I think. Either that, or you mentioned 'Morris Park' and I took an educated guess," he grinned. "But," he added with a teasing smile, "Anderson doesn't sound very Italian."

Blaine grinned, giving Kurt a knowing nod and taking a sip of his tea. "Touché. They changed it, when they immigrated. 'Americanized' it, as they say."

"Ah. Well, truth be told, I don't know many Italians. So…" he gestured back and forth between himself and Blaine, then smiled, "Exciting stuff, right here."

Blaine assured Kurt that it was "equally as exciting" for him, and in what seemed like hardly any time at all, the two were bundling into their coats and scarves (Kurt resealing his coffee and holding it snug between his gloved hands) and heading back outside, into the snow.

They had been casually walking just along the edge of Chelsea Park when Blaine's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, but barely processed the fact that he had just gotten a text from Wes because, _Four o'clock… holy… four o'clock?_

Blaine hated saying goodbye to Kurt. He knew it was silly, but every time – whether after rehearsal or on a day like this – it was just so disappointing. Something he never wanted to do. Kurt had been equally surprised at how quickly the time had passed, though, and needed to be somewhere at five, he had said. Luckily enough, they had the entire subway ride to pretend that their day together could go on forever.

Blaine was both amused and flattered when Kurt thanked him several times over, quite obviously stalling for even just a little more time. Inevitably, of course, they had to part. Blaine wished Kurt a pleasant rest of the weekend, Kurt did the same, and Blaine waved him off as he hopped into a taxi, Woodlawn-bound.

* * *

En route back to his home, Blaine remembered the text from Wes and how he had never actually gotten around to reading it. Reasoning that that would probably be a good idea, he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open.

_Just got in. You gonna be back for dinner? Can't wait to hear about your day ;P Also, if you're still up for it, I'd really like to have that talk. _

Blaine quickly typed up a response, eager to make up for the lapse in time. _But of course. We'll have a therapy sesh tonight. Be there in five, ten mins. _

The response came almost instantly, as was normal with Wes. He prided himself on punctuality. _Awesome. Oh, and your mom called. We had a lovely chat, really brought out my inner 40-year-old woman. Anyway, you've got an obligatory Renato's night comin' up… Cooper's comin' to town! :D_

Nearly dropping his phone as he turned into the neighborhood, Blaine typed back, _WHAT? When the hell did this happen? :D! I'll text her and find out when! _

Grinning excitedly, Blaine all but bolted down the street, all the way to his front porch. Decidedly out of breath when he finally arrived, Blaine climbed the steps slowly. He was just about to open up the front door, when an amusing thought entered his head. He quickly pulled out his phone, and sent one last message…

_To: Kurt the Violinist _

_So Kurt. How would you like to meet a few more Italians? (: _

… before opening the front door, and relishing in the warmth of his home sweet home.

**Whew, that was a long one! Hope you're likin, as always. Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

The Soloist – Chapter V

_Beethoven: Bagatelle In A Minor, WoO 59, "Für Elise"_

Almost as soon as Blaine had entered the house, his phone buzzed with a response from Kurt.

_I'd like that very much, Signor Anderson. Keep me posted! And thanks again. Today was the first time I've done something just for the fun of it in who knows how long ;) _

Blaine must have been sporting that infamous idiotic grin of his, because it was hardly another moment before Wes, relaxing on the loveseat in front of the old, analogue television set, peaked over the top of his newspaper and remarked, "Well _someone _looks like he had a good day…"

"Oh, man, I can't even tell you the half of it," Blaine said, sliding his phone into his pocket, then stepping out of his boots, slipping his coat off his shoulders, and hanging it and his scarf on one of the hooks by the front door. He pounced over to Wes and slumped into the old armchair his parents had donated to their home, throwing his head back over the armrest, relaxing.

Wes lowered his newspaper a little, cocking an eyebrow and smirking curiously, then humming a soft, knowing, "Mmhmm…?"

"He's so _real, _man," Blaine sighed. "I just… I just want to _be _with him. And every time I learn something new about him, it's like, the most amazing thing and I…" Blaine suddenly stopped and glanced over at Wes, who was still smirking amusedly. "Oh, shit… I'm sorry," Blaine laughed, running a hand through his curls, which were slightly damp from the melted snowflakes. "You've got the floor tonight. We're talking about you."

Wes shook his head, smiling dismissively at Blaine's apologetic tone. "It's fine, man, it's fine. You're giddy, you've got a crush, you're entitled to a little gushing."

Blaine could feel himself blushing, even as he rolled his eyes and tried to brush Wes's comments aside. But of course, he couldn't bring himself to deny them.

"Kim," Blaine finally said, pushing Wes toward the topic Blaine knew he was dreading. "We need to talk about Kim, dude. I know it's hard for me to get you sometimes because of my different, ish, love life…" Wes gave a small laugh, and Blaine added, "Or, _lack thereof… _but I want to understand, so…"

"Here's the thing, man..." Wes folded the paper and placed it on the coffee table, then pushed his glasses a little further up the bridge of his nose as he pulled his legs up onto the loveseat, crossing them pretzel style and relaxing against the backrest, arms crossed over his midriff. "Kim was absolutely _perfect. _She understood me, we had the same values, she liked things I liked, she was exciting, and beautiful, and… perfect. I mean, you knew her. You know."

Blaine nodded, stretching his arms out, then lacing his fingers behind his head.

"And after all the time we were together, after everything we shared with each other, after… after giving her my heart, and learning to _trust _her to the point where I thought I knew what she would do, and what she wouldn't do… the point where I felt like we were… _one…" _Wes had never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but Blaine could see that he was having trouble, just unearthing all the memories…

"She left me, Blaine. After…" he sighed, then quickly pulled off his glasses and tossed them onto the coffee table, where they landed just on top of his newspaper. "… after _everything_, Blaine. Just… just try to imagine. Imagine that you have someone, or something, that you think you know _everything _about. You know what it does, what it doesn't do. And then all of a sudden… everything changes. It's like… it's like facts are not facts anymore. After something like that, you just… _God…"_

Blaine watched Wes run a hand down his face, breathing deeply as he did. He watched him take a few moments to himself, before he spoke again.

"You just don't trust anyone. Or anything. Everything that was constant in your life becomes unreliable, and questionable, and you feel like you would do anything to keep it from happening again. That's… that's why it's so hard to be with Sarah. Sarah is _perfect," _he sighed, "but Kim was perfect too. What's the difference?"

"I… I get what you're saying," Blaine said, trying hard to imagine, "but if you live your life without taking chances, it's not _living, _you know?" he reasoned, pushing himself into a sitting position, hugging one leg to his chest and tucking the other on the seat of the chair.

"But what you don't get… and I mean that with all due respect, man," Wes added, always the gentlemen, "Is… I guess… how _hard _it is to… to "walk the walk." You know how you watch movies where like, a person will talk about how moving on is so damn hard and you think to yourself, "Honestly, just get over it already?"

Blaine nodded, smiling as recalled how many times he and Wes had had that conversation as teens (after they admitted to each other that they each had a weak spot for romantic comedies).

"Well it wasn't until Kim that I really, fully realized how… how _fucking _hard it is."

Blaine took a moment and thought hard about Wes's words. And he understood, to an extent. He understood in that he recognized the logic, saw the "two plus two equals four" aspect of the issue, but there was still that one snag: _It's never happened to me._

"I understand. I mean, I understand, but it's hard for me to… to _really _understand, because…" he laughed a little, and shrugged, "I've never really… felt that before."

Wes smiled, nodded, and looked as if he were about to clear the floor, when his face changed, like a thought had suddenly seized him.

"Blaine I…" he began, newly energized, "I think you have."

Blaine was slightly taken aback. Wes's tone was not unkind or presumptuous, but still, it was unexpectedly sure and firm, Blaine couldn't ignore his piqued curiosity. So he watched Wes, waiting, until he finally continued.

"You've been through a lot of shit, Blaine. And I mean a _lot. _Now think back, on all that stuff that happened to you…"

"Wes…"

"… when you were in high school…"

"Wes," Blaine interrupted, looking anywhere but at his friend, suddenly feeling a little too vulnerable for comfort, "where are you going with this…?"

"Look at me, Blaine. Look at me…"

A little reluctantly, Blaine looked back into Wes's eyes.

"… and tell me that – _all _of it, everything you've been through – tell me that didn't leave a scar."

Blaine's mind was so busy wrapping itself around the fact that, _Oh… yes, I understand, I know… I knew all along, _that Blaine didn't even realize he had been dragging his fingers gently back and forth over a small area of his ribcage, one of many places on his body that _were_ Wes's words, incarnated.

"Blaine."

He whispered, and Blaine looked up.

"On the one hand, you can't compare one person's problems to another's. Ever. Because… because, you just can't. But on the other hand…"

Blaine spoke up softly, interjecting, "… they're the same thing. They… they work the same way."

"Just like you can't go back into that building… I can't chase another heartbreak-waiting-to-happen." Wes sighed. "Some people are lucky, and everything just… rolls right along for them, without any kind of, you know, devastation along the way. But then, there's everyone else, held back by… something. Anything."

"Yeah… no, I… I get it. More than I did before, anyway. A lot more," he added.

"Blaine," Wes leaned forward, "Do _you _want to talk?"

"What… no! I mean, just… no, no because I'm… I'm fine." Wes retrieved his glasses slid them gracefully back onto his nose, cocking an eyebrow as he did, making Blaine roll his eyes as he laugh dismissively, "Jesus, Wes, you're acting like Cooper."

Rising from his place on the loveseat, gathering up his newspaper, and heading for the kitchen, "Oh, but if I were to have the class and physique of Cooper Anderson…"

"Yeah, okay," Blaine muttered as Wes grinned back at him before disappearing through the swinging kitchen door, "Now don't _you _go and become a psychologist like him. I don't need _both_ of you prodding at me like I'm a lab rat…"

From the kitchen Wes called back after a bust of laughter, "Give it a rest, he means well."

"I know, I know…" Blaine sauntered aimlessly around the tiny living room, rolling his neck, stretching his arms behind his head, speaking clearly enough to be heard over Wes's audible rummaging through their pantry, "It gets exhausting, is all. And it makes me feel like a burden. I mean, that's his job. I doubt it's what he wants to do when he comes home to visit his brother, you know?"

"Well, music is your job," Wes reasoned, clamoring around in the refrigerator, "but that doesn't stop you from playing the restaurant every now and then."

Blaine couldn't argue with that. (Wes's logic was so straightforward, and Blaine loved that about him.)

After a particularly loud clang of some glass object against metal, Blaine sighed, and entered the kitchen.

Only Wes's feet and backside were visible as he crouched low in front of the open refrigerator. "Yeah..." came his muffled voice, "we have no food."

"Chinese?"

Wes peeked out from behind the fridge door and clapped his hands dutifully together.

"Let's do it."

* * *

Monday eventually rolled around and Blaine arrived at the theatre early, happy for the time to absentmindedly pluck around on a white baby grand in one of the practice studios backstage.

His fingers danced gracefully through Beethoven, slow and soft, but purposeful. He played most of the song with his eyes closed, in fact, but he barely noticed this. From years and years of practice, certain songs had become second nature to Blaine, "Für Elise" being one of them.

Eventually, the song ended, but the music didn't. Blaine fingers kept moving, extemporaneously transitioning from one key to the next, from one melody to another, until he slowly faded out the bass notes, and was playing with only his right hand. He kept the notes blended together with the sustain pedal, and kept playing, the notes starting to sound familiar…

And then, he remembered: one night, several weeks ago, when he had come home from a rehearsal, he had been humming a strange little tune in a minor key, nine notes young, the very last of which teetering on the edge of some mysterious beyond.

He played the first nine notes, again, and again, and again, until he heard something in his head that he knew was meant to come next. He played them one last time, then the first eight, with the ninth different. _D to F. F because if there were an E flat chord in the minor key F would suspend that into a major key and then take it into a B flat and if I played an A… A. A… A with a D major chord but it wouldn't sound like a major chord because of the preceding B flat… but it's not going anywhere… I need to feel something lower, lower, but sharp, flat… no, sharp… no, flat… no… I just need to _feel_ it, it's sharp, it's strange, it's beautiful and… diminished. Yes, yes… diminished… F… F sharp… F sharp diminished… bad, bad, bad… but it's so close… minor. Minor. Yes, yes… good, good, good… F sharp… minor diminished… there, there, that's… F sharp minor diminished… with a seven… flatted… flatted seven… _

"What's that?"

"Wha…?"

Blaine glanced over his shoulder, and there was Kurt, leaning against the doorframe, still in his coat and scarf, cheeks and nose rosy from the icy winds outside.

"What is that?" he asked again with bright, curious eyes.

"Oh, it's… nothing. Literally," he laughed as Kurt took the few strides over to where Blaine sat at the piano, "I'm just kind of… it's just kind of… happening."

Kurt hummed quietly, and gave a small nod. "It's pretty," he said, standing just behind him, arms wrapped around himself for warmth.

Blaine murmured a soft "Thank you," before turning to look at him again. He chuckled softly when he did, then reached up and tapped Kurt affectionately on the nose. "You're all red," he said.

Kurt smiled, then began rubbing his nose to warm it up. "It's cold out there, shut up," he laughed.

Blaine turned back to the keyboard and tapped a few notes, and Kurt suddenly muttered a quiet, timid little "Scooch" before sliding onto the piano bench beside him.

And Blaine let him, happily. He tapped the last few notes of his upbeat little melody, then glanced at Kurt, who nodded in approval. "Next Rachmaninov," he said.

"Damn straight," Blaine teased. And again, Kurt grinned as though he was grateful for Blaine's sense of humor. Like it wasn't something he was often privileged to.

"You're…" Kurt sighed, then turned, and looked Blaine directly in the eye. "I think you're interesting… Blaine Anderson," he said. "And I… you're very different, from anyone I've ever met before."

Teasingly, Blaine winced a little and asked, "_Bad_ different, or good different?"

"Good different," he assured him, "Definitely good different. And… I'd like it if, if we could keep this, whatever it is, and… I could keep getting to know you. Because…" he paused for a moment and turned to the piano, where his fingers ghosted soundlessly over a few keys, before smiling shyly and, though not looking at Blaine, saying softly, "It's been fun. Getting to know you. Blaine."

Kurt chanced a glance back at Blaine, who was beaming at him, fondly. Kurt looked nervous, and maybe even slightly embarrassed, but excited, and happy, all at the same time.

"I think you're interesting too, Kurt Hummel. And it's been fun getting to know you, as well. I'd like that. If… if we could 'keep this.' I'd like that a lot."

Blaine couldn't tell if the pink on Kurt's cheeks was because of the cold or because he was blushing, but either way, he could see that Kurt was just as delighted as he was.

Kurt rose, sidled out from between the bench and the keyboard, and moved to the door. "See you in a bit?" Kurt gestured out into the dark wing space.

Blaine nodded, and they exchanged one last smile before Kurt disappeared through the door.

Blaine barely had time to turn back towards the keyboard and do a small, victorious fist pump before he heard the studio door reopen and a gruff voice mutter, "Yo Liberace."

The door slammed shut and suddenly Puck, all game face, was closing the piano lid and staring daggers down at Blaine. "We need to talk."

"Damn straight, we do."

Blaine turned to see Artie, the wheelchair-bound trumpeter, rolling over to Puck's side, followed by the tall, blonde tenor trombonist named Sam, the Asian cellist Mike, and Rory, Kurt's young, Irish cousin… _All_ staring daggers his way.

Not at all sure _what _their problem was, Blaine swallowed hard and stammered, "Um… hi guys…"

"Don't 'hi guys' us," Puck said, "We know what's going on."

The rest nodded emphatically in agreement, and Blaine just put his hands up in surrender. "I… I honestly have no idea…"

"Oh, save it." Puck crossed his arms over his chest. "Sam here told me that Artie told him that Mike and Tina went out last night and got a text from Santana saying she heard from Brittany who got a call from Rory that Finn overheard Mr. Hummel and Kurt at the tire shop late Saturday night talking about how _you_," he pointed a thick finger at Blaine, right between his eyes, "took Kurt on a little outing earlier that day."

Blaine, who had gotten lost somewhere after 'Mike and Tina went out last night,' sat with a look of utter confusion on his face, shook his head, and tried again, "I… I don't understand how that's a prob…"

"Oh, it's a problem. Because you don't know what I do to people who mess with my boy Kurt…"

That hit Blaine like a freight train at full speed, and he immediately scooted back on the bench, hands up in surrender again as he hurried to explain, "Oh my gosh, I had no idea… I… I, I, I swear, Kurt didn't say he was already, he was, that he had a… and I really didn't suspect anything because you just… I mean, I hate stereotypes! Believe me, I don't mean to stereotype, I'd never try to stereotype, but you just, just, just _seemed _straight to me and Kurt _never _said _anything…_"

Blaine's frantic babbling began to die away when the five guys in front of him, Puck included, were all attempting but failing to hide their amusement and suppress their laughter. Blaine, who must have looked terrified out of his mind – because he sure felt it – just looked from one to the other, bewildered.

"Anderson. _Anderson," _Puck said, interrupting Blaine's last incoherent mumbles of self-defense, "I am _not_ Kurt's boyfriend. Nor have I ever been a fan of sausage," he smirked, looking Blaine up and down, "But Kurt's still my boy. One of my bros. I've always got his back. We all do. And whether he knows it or not, he needs our seal of approval before let's himself become…"

"Emotionally vulnerable," Mike interjected.

"… with anyone. _Anyone_," stated Puck, vehemently. "So what's your angle here, man? What's your motive?"

"My… my motive… um…" he glanced nervously back at the group, all awaiting a response.

"He was the first person here who really… made an effort, to get to know me," he explained, scratching the back of his head, anxiously. "And we started talking and stuff, and I started to think about him, because he's… interesting. And then, and then he went to Chelsea with me, and I couldn't believe how _smart _and funny and amazing he was, and I just… and he's so talented, but he seems… lonely. I just… I just want to… _be _with him. Not even, like… necessarily… like as a boyfriend, or, or, but that would be amazing but even if that doesn't happen it's not like it's a big deal or anything... just," he sighed, knowing he was rambling, "I just want to keep getting to know him. I… I like him."

Blaine had been so self-conscious about what he was saying, and how it sounded, and whether or not it would prove to them that his intentions were nothing if not pure, that he hadn't even realized their softening expressions.

"You're right," Sam suddenly said, grasping Blaine's attention once again. "He _is_ smart, and funny, and amazing…"

Quietly, Artie interjected, "And lonely."

Sam nodded before continuing, "And he hasn't been happy for a long time. I don't know if you knew that already, but… but that's something you should know."

"And that's all the more reason for you to know that you _cannot _hurt him," said Puck. "You… you can't."

"I…" Blaine looked Puck directly in the eye. "I wouldn't. Ever. I… would never want to. Because he's… he's even more amazing when he's happy."

This, for some reason, made them all smile. Subtly, but they were still smiling.

They exchanged a few glances and subtle nods with each other before Puck laid down the final word.

"If that's true, then you best take care of him. Got that, Hoffman? You've gotta be good to him."

Blaine nodded one last time, fervently as ever.

"Well then," said Puck, mood changing instantly as he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, "Let's go. Rehearsal time, guys."

There was a general murmur of agreement and the group began to dissipate, most of the guys clapping Blaine amiably on the shoulder or back on their way out into the theatre, Puck bringing up the rear.

"Hey, hey wait!" Blaine called, rising from the bench and running to catch them.

Puck was the only one who heard, and he turned around, looking questioningly back at Blaine. "'Sup dude?"

When Blaine had reached his side, he asked, in a hushed tone, "You guys said Kurt hasn't been happy for a while…" Puck nodded, "… and I was just wondering… why?"

Puck looked directly into Blaine's eyes for a moment or two, like he was deciding something. Finally, he said, his voice low, "That's Kurt's story to tell, bud. You'll have to ask him."

"But I can't just… just _ask _him…" Blaine replied, stopping Puck, once again, from leaving the room.

Puck's eyes softened a little, and he said, his voice a little lighter, "Maybe you won't have to." When Blaine just looked at him, questioningly, Puck continued, "Well, if he starts to feel as close to you as you feel you are to him… maybe he'll tell you himself."

Blaine's gaze dropped to the floor, but he nodded, remaining quiet. He felt Puck give him a kind pat on the shoulder before turning and exiting onto the stage, leaving Blaine in the studio, alone with his thoughts, before he too headed out for rehearsal.

**As always, thanks for reading! Comments are like crack to me, so let me know how it's going (: Cheers!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Be sure to check out the soundtrack addition for this chapter, "Nel blu dipinto di blu" by Domenico Modugno, or listen to the Spanish/Italian mashup version entitled "Volare" by the Gypsy Kings! It's a **_**lovely **_**song, and, as you've probably guessed, an important element of Chapter VI. Thank you so much for comin' along on the journey with me, guys. I'm having a blast with this story (: **

The Soloist – Chapter VI

_Domenico Modugno: "Nel blu dipinto di blu (Volare)"_

Blaine and Kurt's second date could not have come at a more opportune time. Cooper arrived from Boston on Wednesday, called Blaine from the airport in the morning, and _begged _him to come to the restaurant that night and see him, despite the fact that he knew Blaine would have work early the next day. Naturally, Blaine agreed, and confirmed the date with Kurt.

What Blaine didn't know at the time, though, was that the Wednesday afternoon's rehearsal would be positively _painful. _It was the chamber's first day of actually rehearsing one of the classic pieces Will had selected for the April Concert (more than half the pieces still not selected, of course, seeing as either Kurt or Rachel would be given that honor), and they couldn't go twenty bars without Rachel shouting for them to stop so she could recommend, "Why don't you let _me _take the melody here while the rest of the first violinists play harmony" or "Can the woodwinds please stop _deliberately _drowning me out? I'm sorry if you guys feel unimportant in this piece but we all have a part to play" or "How about the second violinists just stop playing altogether?"

And Blaine sat the entire day watching Kurt bite his tongue, until he couldn't bite it back anymore.

Right in the middle of another one of her absurd demands, Kurt sprung to his full height, toweringover her, and _tore_ her a new one.

It had taken Blaine by such surprise that he really couldn't remember exactly what Kurt had said, but he vaguely recalled the phrase "nauseating snob" being spat inches from her face at some point. More vividly, he remembered the astounded silence that followed, the shocked yet vindicated expressions on every single one of their peers' faces, and the muffled sounds of certain musicians (most notably the clarinetist Santana and her two blonde counterparts, who weren't trying as hard as others to hide the fact that they found Kurt's words absolutely hysterical) trying to hold back laughter.

After what felt like an eternity of awkwardness, Will finally said in an almost inappropriately calm voice, "Kurt. Why don't go get a drink of water, and stretch your legs."

It wasn't a request.

"Come back when you're ready to put aside your personal problems and play as part of the team."

Blaine's thoughts and feelings in response to Will's words were reflected, uncannily, in the faces of his peers. How was that fair? How was that fair _at all?_

Blaine was suddenly aware of a presence walking swiftly past his seat at the piano, through the curtains, and into the backstage area. Kurt had left rehearsal, at Will's command, and something inside Blaine told him that Kurt wouldn't be coming back until it was over.

And with the apparent exception of Will (and most likely, Rachel), _everyone_ knew that it wasn't right.

Wordlessly, Blaine got up from his seat, gathered his music into a neat pile and set it aside, picked up his coat, then followed Kurt offstage. He didn't even pause to see the looks on the others' faces.

Blaine found Kurt outside in the grey, chilly afternoon, sitting about halfway down the back staircase, chin resting on his knees and gazing wistfully out at the city traffic. Quietly, Blaine made his way down the steps until he was standing just one step behind him, wondering if he should say something, sit down, say something and then sit down, sit down and then say something, when suddenly, Kurt said, "This isn't the first time that's happened, you know."

Blaine put his hands in his pockets and looked at Kurt, confusedly. Kurt still hadn't turned to look at him. "This isn't the first time Will has kicked someone out for losing their temper," he clarified. "And yet, Rachel whines about… the… stupidest… _minutia _every single day… and he's never kicked her out," he said, finally turning, his blue eyes finding Blaine's. "Not once."

Sympathetically Blaine looked back at Kurt, wishing there was something he could do or say to bring about some sort justice…

He took the last step down to where Kurt was sitting, then took a seat next to him.

"I didn't want to say anything," Blaine began, "but I often find myself… questioning his logic."

Kurt broke into a small laugh and pressed his forehead to his knees. "You're not alone," Kurt smiled sadly, raising his head once again and turning to look at Blaine, their faces (Blaine found himself painfully aware) just inches apart. "Everyone does. Some people have tried telling him, but… he always just comes up with some nonsensical, backhanded way of brushing our points under the rug. Yet, he's legendary. A hero in the city of New York," Kurt said, with wild hand movements that were teasingly majestic. "Go figure."

"And then I guess you… you remind yourself that you're lucky to be here, so you… can't really complain."

Kurt nodded, resignedly. "It just…" he struggled to find words. "That god… damn… _girl_…"

Blaine laughed and, almost without thinking, placed a hand on Kurt's back and began rubbing, comfortingly, up and down. "It'll be okay, Kurt."

He thought he felt some kind of reaction to the touch, a small jump at the spontaneity of it. And the longer he left his hand there, the more he realized how tense Kurt's back seemed to feel. He carefully moved his hand to the opposite shoulder, resting it there so that his arm was now wrapped around Kurt, and he felt some of the tension release, felt Kurt letting himself relax under his touch.

"I… hope so. You know," he said, turning to look at Blaine, "it's a good thing we planned our next adventure for tonight. I could use a good distraction."

Blaine laughed, agreeing entirely. After the horror that today's rehearsal had held for them, he found himself in need of a good distraction as well.

Kurt was a pretty good distraction himself, though, and Blaine was finding that this had almost never been more true than it was now, in the present moment, as he sat, smiling gratefully at Blaine, his eyes shining even in the grey afternoon, that smile just inches away from Blaine's, _those_ _lips_ just inches away from Blaine's own, and Kurt was… _Moving? Is he? Does he want me to? Does he want me to move first? Should I? _Am _I? Oh God, I am, aren't? What… am I… doing…_

"Musicians-gone-AWOL, Schuester wants your asses back inside for the last run-through…"

Against his own will, Blaine's neck suddenly yanked his head in another direction, turning at an awkward angle to look out over the left railing as Kurt twisted at an equally awkward angle to look over the right.

"What are _you_ guys up to?"

Without even turning to look at him, Blaine could perfectly envision the mischievous little smirk on Puck's face as he stood in the doorway, probably crossing his arms, tapping his fingers against his sleeve. Instantly both Blaine and Kurt turned to look at him and began explaining…

"Nothing…"

"Just sitting…"

"Talking…"

"Just talking…"

"Just… talking."

Blaine's mental picture of Puck had been spot on.

"Uh huh," he nodded, grinning just a little too widely, probably because both of them were blushing profusely. "Well you'll have to continue… _talking_… later," he said, "Cuz the maestro wants you back inside." He kept up his smirking and cocked an eyebrow, then disappeared back into the theatre, leaving Blaine and Kurt alone once again.

They avoided each other's gazes for a few moments, Blaine laughing nervously and scratching the back of his neck, Kurt removing nonexistent dust from beneath his fingernails.

Finally, Blaine gestured with his thumb to the door and piped up, "So I guess we should…"

"Yeah," Kurt said, shaking his head back and forth quickly, as if ridding himself of some unwanted thought, "Yeah, we should…"

Blaine just laughed nervously again and helped Kurt up from his seat on the steps, then followed him back into the theatre to finish rehearsal.

* * *

The longer Blaine stood out on the front porch of the restaurant and listened to the boisterous Italian merrymaking going on inside, the more he began to wonder why exactly he had thought that this was a good idea.

He continuously questioned his judgment when he really thought about the fact that he was taking Kurt to meet his _family, _since, traditionally, that's what people do when they've been dating for _at least _a few weeks, maybe even a couple of months.

But then, he'd find himself overcome with the sudden urge to bang his head against the brick wall of the restaurant exterior and bellow _"We're just friends!" _with every blow. Then came the daydreams… _Friends who held hands on their first outing, friends who put their arms around each other when they're sad, friends who almost kissed…_

"You didn't have to wait out here for me, you must be freezing!"

Kurt was just feet from Blaine, climbing a little clumsily out of the back of his taxi while attempting to avoid falling knee-deep into the obscenely large piles of snow along the curb.

Blaine quickly skipped to his side and took his hand to steady him as he closed the cab door. "Oh, it's… I'm fine," he said, breath visible in the night air. "I didn't want you to have to search for me in that madhouse."

Kurt glanced toward the door, smiling fondly and laughing a little at the obscene amount of noisy chatter and live music flooding out from the tiny, humble yet charming little building with its old-fashioned awnings and neon window signs. "Sounds pretty frivolous for a Wednesday," he chuckled.

"Oh, Kurt…" Blaine began, taking Kurt by the hand and leading him to the door, "You should hear us on weekends…"

* * *

From the reaction Blaine got upon entering the bar, one would have thought the crowd of people inside hadn't seen him in a decade. Truthfully, though, that was one of the things Blaine loved most about his family – whether it had been one day, two weeks, or three and half years since the last time they'd seen one of their own, they never appeared any less enthused at each other's arrivals.

The first people to bombard poor, five-foot-seven Blaine in crushing hugs and showers of kisses were several of his aunts and uncles, none of whom were any less affectionate with Kurt than they were with Blaine once he had introduced him (much to Blaine's exasperation and Kurt's amusement). Next came several of his cousins and God siblings. Blaine was sure to give Kurt a name to match every face, but he hardly expected Kurt to remember a single one, seeing as there were a good four Enzos, three Ginos, and at least five Isabellas.

By the time the bar was even in sight, Blaine had introduced Kurt to at least half of his family members. He attempted to guide Kurt through the mess of people and voices and cigar smoke and music, happy to see that Kurt looked like he was finding the entire atmosphere thoroughly enjoyable. Getting a firm grip on Blaine's forearm so as to get his attention as they navigated their way through people and tables and chairs, Kurt managed to ask above all the noise, "So I guess they haven't seen you in a while, huh?"

"Oh, no, they're like this all the time!" Blaine called back, leading Kurt the last few strides to the bar. "If you start to feel faint from all the crazy, let me know, I'll gladly grant you freedom!"

"Oh, no, I'm liking this!" he responded, just audible as the three-man band on the small, makeshift stage opposite the bar and tables brought their upbeat tune to an end and the crowd broke into cheers and applause. He then added knowingly with a laugh, "The perfect distraction!"

Blaine could already feel his mouth and throat going dry from all the yelling, so when he and Kurt finally got to the bar and took two stools side-by-side, he asked the bartender (after an exclamation at the sight of him and a bear hug, of course, since the bartender happened to be another one of Blaine's uncles) for two waters.

Blaine joked that he would have ordered "something stronger," but figured they should respect the weekday. Kurt laughed and agreed as he removed his coat and scarf, draping both over the backrest of the swiveling barstool, before vocally entertaining the idea that going back to work in the chamber under the influence actually didn't sound like too bad of an idea.

And Blaine couldn't really argue with that, especially after their rehearsal earlier that day.

The band, Blaine saw, was clearing the stage – probably for the next set – and Blaine was prompted to ask Kurt if he had a day job, other than his work as a musician.

Kurt took a sip of the water that the bartender had set before him and nodded his thanks. In a slightly softer voice now that at least the music had disappeared, Kurt answered, "I've had quite a few. Kind of like you, you could say I've had a 'string of odd jobs,'" he laughed. "Right now, though, I'm a technician-slash-assistant at the New York Public Library."

"Wow!" Blaine couldn't hide his interest, and was somewhat enamored at the small, proud smile the crept across Kurt's lips as a result. "And how does one acquire such a job?"

"One acquires such a job by having a father who gives important people good deals on car repairs," Kurt laughed, taking another sip of his water, "and by having one or two killer letters of recommendation and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. I get to do a _hell _of a lot of reading."

Blaine eyed him, still interested, and he continued, "Like when they have me organizing the psychology section? I could _lose_ myself in there…"

"Psychol… Oh my gosh!" Blaine hopped up from his seat and began to look frantically around the room. Kurt laughed and cocked an eyebrow, and Blaine began to explain, "Oh, I completely forgot, I have to introduce you to…"

"Blaine!"

Blaine whipped around as he heard his name, and saw, approaching him from a few tables away, his big brother, looking Cooper-esque as ever with his neatly styled hair, his very academic eyeglasses, and the biggest grin on his face. As soon as he was within arm's reach, he grasped Blaine's shoulder and pulled his little brother into what Blaine was sure was his fiftieth crushing hug within the last half hour. No matter how old they got, though, the truth still stood that no one on planet Earth could hug quite like Cooper Anderson. Blaine had thrown his arms around his brother's neck and held him tight. It had been too long since he'd gotten to hug his big brother.

"Hey!" he finally managed to say, when they separated.

Cooper laughed. "Hey," he said, smoothing a hand over Blaine's perpetually untamable hair. "I've missed you like crazy, bud. How's life?"

"It's been great. Really!" he added, when Cooper was quick to give him that scrutinizing, skeptical look only he could do so well. "Actually, you have to meet someone…"

Blaine turned and motioned to Kurt, who had been watching the two of them from his seat at the bar, smiling warmly. And Blaine knew instantly that Kurt understood the feeling. He had a brother too, even if just a stepbrother. He knew how good it felt to have family so close.

Kurt hopped off the stool and made his way over to the Andersons, and Blaine (cautious of the looks Cooper was still giving him) introduced them.

"Cooper, this my good friend, Kurt, from the orchestra," Cooper slipped in a friendly "Hi there" and extended his hand, which Kurt took in his own and shook firmly, "and Kurt, this my brother Cooper."

"It's so good to meet you," Kurt smiled, "I've heard nothing but great things about you."

"Have you now?" Cooper asked, that very scholarly, slightly condescending tone causing Blaine to heave a heavy mental sigh and prepare himself for the upcoming diagnostics, praying to God that he wouldn't send Kurt running, petrified, to the edge of the city…

"See, that's interesting, because Blaine's the type of person who has so much love in his heart, and is so genuinely kind… no really, Blaine," he added when Blaine waved a hand, dismissively, "that sometimes when the people who occasionally ruffle his feathers aren't around, he takes the opportunity to air all of his grievances. It's really fascinating, actually…" Blaine made a move to dodge but wasn't quick enough, and soon Cooper's hands were on his head, as if indicating the actual spots on his brain muscle to which he was referring… "that his ability to vent is suppressed by his desire to please the people he cares about. A very active superego, in this boy's head…"

Blaine could feel his face reddening as he hissed a sharp "_Not now, _Cooper…"

"My takeaway there was that you 'occasionally ruffle his feathers'?" Kurt asked, a little teasingly. He was going to have fun with this, Blaine could see it already.

Cooper laughed (_God,_ _he even _laughs_ like a scientist_), and admitted to occasionally ruffling Blaine's feathers, "Only because I love him."

Animatedly, Kurt started going on about how he had "read something the other day about the male superego," gripping Cooper's attention and temporarily setting Blaine free. There was something in how excited Kurt seemed to be about this topic that made him suspect Kurt had done this on purpose. To his amusement and gratitude, the subtle wink he received from Kurt a moment later confirmed those suspicions.

Blaine stealthily backed out of the conversation and made his way back to the bar where he placed a quick order for Kurt and himself, then reached into his coat (which was, like Kurt's, slung over the back of the barstool) and retrieved his cell phone. He shot a quick text message to Wes…

_To: Wes the Journalist _

_I think I've found someone who's brave enough to stand in Coop's presence for more than five minutes! Huzzah! Also, it's going very well :] _

By the time Blaine had taken another drink of water and was about to head back to see if Kurt was ready to be rescued, Kurt was already heading back over to Blaine, as it appeared he had somehow managed to get Cooper to divert the stimulating conversation onto another lucky individual.

"Well, _he's_ a character," Kurt laughed, taking a seat.

Blaine sighed and briefly massaged his eyelids. "I'm so sorry…"

"Oh shush, he's sweet. Talkative, but sweet. I like him," he grinned.

"Yeah he's… he's Cooper. We wouldn't have him any other way, though. And he really can be fun, once you get his mind off his work… Oh! Not to feed the stereotype or anything, but I ordered us spaghetti. I figured if we're going to be yelling over the noise and dealing with Cooper all night, we're going to need our strength."

"Oh, it wouldn't have been the full experience without it," Kurt smiled. "Thank you, Blaine. Oh, I wanted to ask you…" he leaned in close and gestured over to the stage, "what's going on up there?"

Two of the previous band's members were still removing equipment from the stage, and Blaine's Godfather was standing in the center, in a humorously loud and jesting 'argument' with some of his seated relatives.

"Ah," Blaine chuckled softly and explained, "They're currently in the process of deciding who's going to play the next set. It's all very impromptu. Pretty rare that someone is actually _scheduled _to play. Normally I'd volunteer, but I really should keep a low profile tonight because I wouldn't wanna leave y…"

"Blaine! _Sei avanti!_"

"Oh God…"

As he could have predicted, the cheer of encouragement that sounded at the mention of his name was not going to let up until he succumbed to the pressure. He tried to wave it off, but really, all that could do was make them more adamant. And of course, Cooper just had to throw in, "_Per tuo fratellone!_"

Blaine glanced, with a hopeless smile, up at Kurt, who was positively beaming. "I can take on _one _of them to save your ass," he laughed, "but there's no way I'm taking on _all _of them."

Blaine sighed. "You sure you don't mind?"

Kurt just rolled his eyes and gripped Blaine's shoulders, standing him up (much to the delight of the excited onlookers) and gave him an encouraging push toward the stage.

Blaine made his way through the tables and chairs, receiving several amiable slaps on the back as he did, but he couldn't shake the feeling of dread spreading in his stomach, something he hadn't really felt since his first day in the chamber and, before that, since… probably high school. He never got stage fright. _Never_. Why was today different?

He knew why. He just didn't want to remind himself of it. He didn't want to think about the fact that this aspect of his life, his home-based performance, which was usually only viewable to his family and very, very close friends, was about to be seen by someone outside that circle. One more pat on the back from his Godfather, and Blaine picked up the acoustic guitar that had been set beside the stage, slinging the strap across his back. He retrieved the pick and began his ritualistic preliminary tuning, and realized that his hands were sweating, and shaking, and he feared that somehow tonight would be the one night he lost control of them, even though he _never _did.

There was that general hum of encouragement and anticipation that this particular circle of people always gave him before a performance, but the encouragement, for whatever reason, only added to his anxiousness.

Through the lights and smoke Blaine could just make out Kurt, who had crossed his legs and was leaning forward, his arms resting in his lap, still beaming up at Blaine, eyes wild and bright. He was both beautiful and terrifying to look at, and standing under the white-hot lights before his admiring gaze, Blaine had never felt more vulnerable… or more exhilarated.

He tapped the microphone a few times, muttered a soft "check, testing," and strummed the open strings as he began his customary opening monologue, already beginning to sweat from the nerves and heat.

"Well, hi there…" he said, jokingly, as if he _didn't_ see these people every spare moment of his life. Even these simple words were met with a few enthusiastic calls from his cousins. "Thanks for forcing me up here tonight, I owe you guys one. Really…"

Several of them laughed, and through the hazy lighting Blaine saw Cooper take his seat next to Kurt. They sat together, both watching with affectionate eyes, as Blaine stalled until he could, essentially, pull a song out of his ass.

"I really didn't prepare anything, but let's be real here for a second, when do I _ever _prepare anything…?" More laughter, and slowly, Blaine felt himself calming down, becoming more comfortable, feeling more at home. "So that's… that's no excuse. Okay, so…" he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, and looked out at his audience. Titles and albums and artists were zooming in and out of his head… and he looked at Kurt. He needed one… just _one… _one for Kurt. One that would ensure that beautiful smile of his never faded away. One that would make him _feel _something… something _good… _something _happy…_

"This one," Blaine finally said, his heart quickening and an eager smile forming on his lips, "This one is… is a really lovely little tune that I'm sure you all know. But I'm going change it up, just a bit, as I… often do… to better suit my… my style, if you will. So, ah… here we. Hope you like it."

Slowly, melodically, Blaine strummed out the notes of the first E chord, and began, his lips no more than an inch from the microphone he had been singing into since he was ten, "_Penso che sogno così non ritorni mai più…" _

He had known that his family would know it, and he had known that his close friends would know it, so he wasn't surprised when the first lyric evoked excited gasps and small, encouraging applause from his audience, but he _was _surprised at the change he saw in Kurt's face. His smile did not fade, but something definitely changed. His entire face seemed to soften, his lips parting slightly, his eyes widening and giving just the subtlest glances left then right then back at Blaine, as if he had wanted someone there to react with him, to feel what he was feeling, or to _tell _what he was feeling… but he just looked tenderly, at Blaine, and listened.

"_Mi dipingevo le mani e la faccia di blu…_"

Suddenly, Blaine couldn't understand how he had ever performed _without _this. Without someone out there, looking at him the way Kurt was looking at him now. And it was petrifying, standing onstage, laying himself bare for those gorgeous eyes that were gazing at him so _adoringly_…

He transitioned into the A flat minor, his mind beginning to drift away as it always did, "_Poi d'improvviso venivo dal vento rapito_…" he moved into the F sharp minor, feeling the song starting to swell into the bars just before the chorus…

His fingers added the seventh note to the chord, his mind almost completely at peace now, "_E incominciavo a volare nel cielo infinito…_" His hands found the B seven, and he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as goose bumps spread over his skin, despite the fact that he was sweating beneath the lights… but that didn't matter, and would never change the fact that the B seven at the swelling of the first verse would evoke so much anticipation for the upcoming refrain that Blaine would lose himself, completely, in the song.

And then, finally…

"_Volare… whoa, oh…_" Blaine opened his eyes when he heard so many of his family members singing the lyrics along with him, the lyrics they all knew so well, but were now excitedly becoming accustomed to the smooth, soothing acoustics of _his_ version of the song… "_Cantare, oh oh, oh oh_…"

He dropped rhythmically from the C sharp minor to an F sharp minor, taking the break in lyrics as an opportunity to murmur, "Yeah, you guys know the words," into the microphone, earning him audible, endeared support before they continued into the title line, "_Nel blu dipinto di blu… felice di stare lassù…_"

He saw Kurt cock an eyebrow and give him a playful smirk after that comment, to which Blaine replied during another break in the lyrics, "Well, most of you, anyway…"

Kurt put a hand to his mouth as he laughed, and several amused, curious heads turned to glance back to the bar, in his direction, then fondly back at Blaine, as he finished the refrain…

And Blaine was almost certain that it was the first time, perhaps in his entire life, that he had stayed conscious of at least one worldly thing throughout an entire performance.

But, then again, Kurt wasn't all that worldly.

Kurt, as far as Blaine was concerned, was something unlike anything he had ever seen, heard, or felt before. He was something different, something new…

Something that made Blaine feel things… strange, alarming, frightening, thrilling, _beautiful_ things… things that Blaine had no idea existed, and had no idea he could feel.

**Thank you, guys! Your comments and feedback have been so awesome and so motivational for me to keep this going, so always feel free to let me know what you think! Hope everyone is feeling extra lovely today. Oh! And also, I'm going to shamelessly plug by Tumblr page (which you can find the URL to on my FF profile), which you should check out (if you haven't already) for a giant masterlist of all the songs used in this story (under my bio, the tab called "The Soloist"). Also, if you follow, I also post the occasional chapter teaser (: Cheers!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Every time this thing gets a new follower, I just squeal with delight! Thanks for the support, lovelies. It makes me such a happy fangirl. But I so wish I could keep you all updated on the progress of the chapter, because I just had the worst writer's block when it came to the last few scenes of this one. But, better late than never, right? (: Thanks for waiting patiently!**

The Soloist – Chapter VII

_The Cranberries: "Linger"_

Blaine set the guitar back onto its stand and walked back to Kurt, sweaty and thrilled and high off secondhand smoke and drunk off the deafening applause. And from the moment he sat back down at the bar – where he and Kurt shared an almost absurdly large plate of spaghetti, and Kurt told him again and again how he never imagined Blaine's voice could be that lovely, and they laughed through more of Cooper's antics and exchanged cognizant glances when they could – to the moment he and Kurt were standing outside again, this time waiting for a taxi to drive Kurt home, Blaine's head hadn't left whatever cloud it had sailed away on when he had gotten up on that stage.

But when the taxi had pulled up and Blaine had walked Kurt through the mountainous piles of snow to the car door, and they were suddenly standing there, thank yous and goodbyes having already been shared, his head came back down only to spin in confusion as he tried to decide what to do, what kind of move to make, if any at all…

The silence stretched on and Blaine panicked inside when Kurt's eyes fell to the ground and he smiled shyly, twiddling his gloved fingers, playing with the fringe on his scarf…

Blaine wanted to. He wanted to so _badly, _that he froze, and he couldn't.

But he could feel the moment slipping through his fingers, and in one final attempt to snatch it back and give Kurt what he had wanted to give him since the moment Kurt reached out so that Blaine could help him down off of that piano, Blaine stammered, "Kurt, I…"

Kurt was quick. Before Blaine could mutter another word, Kurt had thrown his arms around Blaine's neck and tucked his face into Blaine's shoulder, pressing warmly and comfortingly against him. Hugging him.

Blaine, being shorter, stumbled back a little and laughed as he did, wrapping his arms around Kurt's back, holding him tightly.

"Thank you, Blaine," Kurt said, the tickling of his hot breath on Blaine's neck making Blaine shiver.

"My pleasure, Kurt. Really."

The disappointment Blaine felt in himself for letting the perfect opportunity pass him by would have positively weighted him had part of him not been so thrilled by Kurt's closeness and warmth. It felt so natural, melting against him as he did, that when they separated, Blaine felt suddenly cold, incomplete.

Kurt squeezed Blaine's shoulders affectionately and whispered one last goodnight before sliding into the taxi, closing the door behind him, and waving to Blaine through the rear windshield until he turned the corner, disappearing from sight.

And that last interaction, that one breathtaking embrace at the end of the night, stayed in Blaine's mind and replayed itself over and over again for the rest of the night, the week, the next two weeks…

Every time Blaine and Kurt were near to each other – every exchange of exasperated glances, every pre-rehearsal coffee date, every conversation they had about Kurt's upcoming solo and every laugh they shared just to momentarily escape from the stress and drama of the chamber – that hug was on Blaine's mind. Mysteriously, Blaine had a small inkling that that hug (despite the fact that it had been so affectionate, very loving, and completely sincere) had been used almost strategically, like Kurt had been…

_Afraid…? _

The thought intrigued Blaine quite a bit. He wasn't sure exactly _how _he had gathered this, but the idea was there, and for one reason or another, a part of Blaine was almost certain that it was at least partially true.

Always the voice of logic, Wes had reasoned, "Well, you said yourself that _you _were afraid to kiss him too. Said you froze up, couldn't move, felt the moment slipping away… who's to say he wasn't feeling exactly what you were feeling?" when Blaine had brought it up one night over dinner with his roommate and brother, who had enthusiastically extended his stay until after Christmas.

Blaine didn't exactly have ample evidence to confidently refute Wes's analysis, but…

"I don't think it's that simple, though," Blaine had said, getting up from the table to refill his glass while Cooper and Wes, still listening intently, took turns spooning more of the three roommates' attempt at homemade linguini onto their plates. "It felt good, like he _wanted _to be there, I'm not saying it felt like he didn't, but it happened so suddenly and it was almost… frantic, in a way. Like, like a diversion. But… you know… _not…_"

"See the thing is, Blaine," Cooper began, slurping up one last strand of linguini smothered in vodka sauce before adjusting his glasses and continuing, "you're going on nothing but a feeling. Now," he huffed in a professional breath (and Blaine leaned on the counter and took a long sip of his water, a little exasperated, but listening nonetheless), "I firmly believe in the ability of one human to sense stress or discomfort or even – God forbid – a subconscious cry for help from another human, but you really…"

Blaine sighed, "Coop, I'm not saying anything was necessarily _wrong…_"

"_But,_" Cooper interjected, "you really don't have anything… _concrete _to go on. Even when it comes to the subconscious, it's hard to make a valid claim unless there's…" he turned to look at Blaine, "_something._"

Blaine was about tell Cooper that actually, he _did _have something. Several somethings, as a matter of fact: the night all those weeks ago when it looked like Kurt had been trying not to cry, his reaction to the last painting in the "Witness from Baghdad" gallery, how very protective of him some of the other musicians seemed to be… not to mention the fact that Puck and the others openly shared with Blaine that Kurt was unhappy. Or, at least, had been.

It was more than enough to go on in Blaine's mind, but suddenly, the thought of pursuing the matter any further with Wes, Cooper, or anyone really, didn't seem right. He wasn't even one hundred percent sure why he had brought it up in the first place. Perhaps, he thought, just for something to talk about. Or perhaps because, truth be told, it _had _been nagging at him for a while, partially because he was still frustrated at himself for missing that idyllic opportunity to take Kurt by the waist, pull him close, and let him know in one simple touch just how thrilling it was to have someone so gifted and fascinating and _beautiful _in his life…

Or perhaps it was a combination of many things.

In any case, Blaine dismissed the topic, said he just wanted to hear their opinions, and that he wasn't really worried about it. However, it wasn't until he sat back down at the table and tucked in his chair that his own words fully sank in, and he was forced to ask himself…

_Wait_… should _I be worried about it?_

* * *

Saying that all of this dim uncertainty was going on in the back of Blaine's mind, though, is not to say that his budding relationship with Kurt was dim or uncertain. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact.

Ever since that night at Renato's, the two had become nothing if not inseparable. True, they both had busy schedules and hadn't had an "official" date since then, but hardly a day went by without a breakfast or coffee date, a shared lunch break, or (occasionally Blaine's personal favorite, though he was ashamed to admit it) a full-on post-rehearsal venting session.

Not the angry kind so much as the "let's just laugh because if we don't we'll cry, and laughing feels so much better" kind.

One such night, when all the others had left, Kurt had pulled his chair to the center of the empty half-circle in front of Will's podium, violin in hand, to show Blaine what he had been working on for the big competition (which was just about a month and a half away).

Blaine, arms stiff and knuckles in need of a good cracking from a long, grueling rehearsal, sat cross-legged on the floor a few strides away from Kurt and absentmindedly worked the muscles in his hands, arms, and shoulders as Kurt took a few deep breaths, then began to play.

Immediately, Blaine recognized the song. He himself knew it by heart (on the piano, of course), and could practically play it in his sleep. Aside from "Kiss The Rain," it was Blaine's favorite piece by Yiruma. With a title like "River Flows In You," though, Blaine had always wished the song had had lyrics. It definitely sounded like a love song, Blaine thought.

And Kurt's rendition was no exception. It was a lovely piece, being played by a lovely musician. As Blaine watched him, though, watched his arm and fingers work the strings and reproduce that sweet if slightly somber melody, he couldn't help but feel that something was… off. He didn't know what, though. There was a musician, one who was determined, disciplined, focused…

_Maybe a little _too _focused, _Blaine thought to himself.

He finished the piece, holding the last note until it faded into silence. Even when it did, Kurt was still, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Blaine sat quietly and gave him a moment to pull himself out of the music, and back to reality. Finally, with a deep breath and a slightly timid little smile, he looked at Blaine.

"It's a work in progress," he sighed, bringing the instrument off of his shoulder and down to his lap. "What did you think?"

Blaine rested his elbows on his knees and supported his chin on his clasped hands, and looked back at Kurt with a smile. "It was beautiful, Kurt."

Kurt smirked, and cocked an eyebrow. "But…?" he murmured.

"But nothing!" Blaine laughed, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Oh, c'mon, Blaine…" Kurt sighed with a grin, rising from his seat and walking (bow and violin still in hand) the few strides over to where Blaine was sitting, "Even I know it's not what it _could _be. I just…" he sat pretzel style across from Blaine and put the instrument back into proper position, unceremoniously marking a quiet string of notes, "I want to… well, I know Rachel's doing a classic," he said with a mindful look at Blaine, "So I want to do something… _different._"

Blaine watched Kurt mark an impromptu melody for a short moment, then reasoned, "Well Yiruma's definitely _contemporary,_ so that's a good start…"

Kurt nodded, indicating he had been thinking along the same lines.

"But… I think it's too _safe _of a choice_, _to be completely honest," Blaine said.

Kurt continued his quiet melody, but kept his eyes on Blaine. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," Blaine nodded. "I love Yiruma. There's real beauty in the simplicity of his pieces, but, I don't think _simplicity _is what you wanna go for here. You need something with a little more… a little more…" the word didn't seem to be coming to him, so Blaine resorted to making some sort of outward, emphatic hand gesture accompanied by an aggressive grunt that made Kurt break into laughter before offering, "_Panache_?"

"There we go!" Blaine huffed triumphantly, giving a quick point of acknowledgement at Kurt, who was still grinning widely. "Good word. If you had let me keep going there, I might've hurt myself…"

"Oh, it would have come to you eventually," Kurt smiled. "I hate when that happens. But, yeah," he said, steering them back on track, "I gotcha. But still, there are so many paths I could take…"

"Well, what do you like?" Blaine asked, pulling his legs out of their pretzel and stretching out, then pulling off his sweatshirt so that he could relax in his plain, grey t-shirt. Even without full lighting, the stage could get pretty warm. "Genres, artists… anything at all. I know you're an Elfman fan," Blaine offered, and Kurt pouted his lips in consideration, "You said you're big into The Beatles. I know you like Coldplay, Queen…"

"Did you log all of this away or something?" Kurt asked, his tone playful.

Blaine could feel himself blushing a little, so he snapped a teasing "Oh, shut up," then offered again, "But seriously. Schuester wants you to impress him, so I say, give him… give him something that's _you. _You know?"

"I don't know if he necessarily wants to see so much of _me_… I'm a pretty… _peculiar creature_," he laughed. Then, suddenly, biting his bottom lip, his fingers and bow sped into a quick-paced little jig with odd jumps and unexpected turns and more notes played in five seconds than Blaine could play in thirty.

"Whoa!" Blaine stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at what he saw. "Where'd _that _come from?"

A little blush rose in Kurt's cheeks, but Blaine found it adorable that he couldn't seem to suppress a smile of pride. "That came from my mom," he said. "She started teaching me to fiddle when I was four. She only stopped when she died… and I kept going from there. Classical is definitely a big part of me," he assured Blaine, who was watching him intently, "but this music… my _family's _music… is just as big of a part. If not bigger."

"Well, then… why not… use _that_ for your audition?"

Kurt's grin was broader than ever, but nonetheless, he shook his head. "I couldn't. I just… I don't think that's really what he's looking for…"

"But Kurt," Blaine pressed, scrambling to his knees and moving in closer, "He said to be _bold _and _unexpected. _Doing something classical, even remotely classical, is exactly what he'd expect!"

When he had taken a moment to breathe, Blaine realized that Kurt was looking at him in a way he never had before. He looked nervous, and amused, and _beyond _excited, like Blaine was holding out his hand and asking Kurt to accompany him on some sort of strange and wonderful adventure.

"Blaine, I…" Kurt set down his violin, folded his hands in his lap, and chuckled, "I really don't think you… _fully _understand just _how _different the music I make with, with my family is from the music I make with the orchestra. Like, _really_," he added, when Blaine just gave him a skeptical look, "really different."

"Well then…" Blaine drawled, sitting down again, this time one of his knees touching Kurt's, "Why don't you show me?"

* * *

Christmastime looked simply charming on Flanagan's Pub & Grill.

White lights graced the panes of every window, and colored ones were strung over every awning. Very much like his family's own restaurant, waves of warmth accompanied by a distinctive aroma flowed out onto the pavement every time a patron made his way in or out of the tiny little building. There was something pleasantly unique about this aroma, though. Instead of cigarette smoke, it carried a spicier scent, like that of an expensive cigar. And while his home smelled more of flour and basil and tomato paste, Kurt's seemed to smell more like meat fresh from the grinder, steamed cabbage and, if he wasn't mistaken, boiling potatoes.

Especially as their relationship progressed, Blaine always seemed to be almost hyperaware of Kurt's countenance, and of how it changed based on the things they did, the people they met, or the places they visited. As they approached the front door, hand-in-hand, Kurt looked happier than ever.

And if possible, when they finally entered, he looked even more so.

"It's a little easier to breathe in here than in Renato's," Kurt laughed as they hung their coats on the hooks by the front door, "But I hope you'll find it just as enjoyable."

Blaine nodded happily and took the place in. He had to grin when he realized that Kurt was right; compared to their last official date, the place was equally as crowded, but about half as loud.

Despite this, the environment was no less warm and welcoming. It had wood walls and a low ceiling that was decked out in silvery tinsel, holly leaves and colored lights. There were two bars, one on the far right, and one on the far left, each crowded over by clamoring customers. At the very back of the room there was a small stage that was empty at the moment except for a few stacked chairs and three or four microphone stands all stored to one side.

"I'm sure I will, Kurt," Blaine said. "Especially if you hold true to word…" he added, slyly.

Kurt gave a bashful kind of sigh and began to lead Blaine over to the bar. "Well, I told my cousin to sign me up for a slot," he smiled, "So assuming she follows through, you'll have a nice little show tonight. Here," he added, and pulled out a stool for Blaine to take.

"Well, I'm excited," Blaine said. He nudged Kurt teasingly in the side.

"Well, I'm glad then… oh!" Kurt suddenly piped up, eyes widening and reminding Blaine of a rabbit or some other woodland creature perking up at some far-off sound, "I left my violin upstairs… would you mind if I went and grabbed it? I'll only be a minute… are you laughing at me?" he asked, with a playful pout.

"Only because I think you're adorable."

Truthfully, it had slipped out before Blaine had even thought about what to say. But as Kurt stood there, eyes bright beneath the colored Christmas lights, a blush creeping up his neck and biting his bottom lip to suppress a smile, Blaine suddenly realized that was the first time anything like that had been said in their relationship. Sure, they had called each other smart, funny, interesting… but nothing so sweet, close, or intimate as 'adorable.'

Attempts to suppress his smile proving useless, Kurt just slowly made his way around Blaine, whispering, "I'll be right back," before disappearing from sight.

Blaine had been but two seconds into basking in his moment of personal achievement when a gruff kind of voice from behind the bar interrupted his thoughts.

"So I take it you're Blaine?" the voice asked.

Blaine looked up to see a man, probably in his early fifties, wearing a red and green flannel, a baseball cap, and a stern (and, Blaine felt, more than a little intimidating) expression.

"Uh…" Blaine swallowed hard, "Yeah. Yeah that's, that's me."

"I'm Burt Hummel," the man said, extending a hand, "Kurt's dad."

Blaine felt his stomach plummet.

He kept a calm face, though, and shook his hand. "Hi, Mr. Hummel, it's great to finally meet you."

"You too," Burt said. "You're all Kurt's been talking about for the past few weeks. Last time I saw him this happy was during the 2011 royal wedding." Burt uncorked a beer, and slid it toward Blaine.

Blaine chuckled softly, and Burt's stoic face broke into a smile as well. "Happy to hear that," Blaine said. "He's… he's pretty great."

"He is," Burt nodded. "So are you two official yet?"

Blaine, in the middle of a long gulp, coughed and sputtered before looking up at Burt incredulously. The older man just smirked back, mindfully.

"Um…"

"Uncle Burt! Cousin Helen's ready for her first legal drink, set her up!"

Blaine turned at the sound of the familiar voice, and saw Kurt's high-haired, bright-eyed, viola-playing cousin approaching, grinning widely and dragging a pretty young girl with him.

"That's right," the girl laughed, "Babby Helen's all grown up, and she's ready to taste the forbidden pleasures of the poteen…"

Burt frowned teasingly at the two of them, and they exchanged a glance before breaking into fits of laughter. Soon after, Rory turned, and finally spotted Blaine.

"Blaine!" he exclaimed, sidling past a few patrons so that he could greet him properly. "Kurt said you'd be paying us a visit tonight. Good to see you off the job."

"Hey! Yeah, yeah it's good to see you too…"

"Well, if it isn't the famous Anderson…"

The girl Rory had been pulling along appeared by his side to shake Blaine's hand as well. And now that Blaine was seeing her up close, he could see that she was a lovely, short but slender girl with dark hair that fell, layered and graceful, around her face and shoulders, and with icy blue eyes. Kurt's eyes. Only, this girl wore thin, rectangular framed glasses in front of hers.

"Kurt's a little gone in the head when it comes to you, just so's you know…"

"Damnit, Helen…"

"Ah, quit your blathering, Rory, it's no secret. And if it is, it shouldn't be. You sir," she said in her thick accent, looking Blaine dead in the eye, "are the reason Kurt's currently the happiest he's been in years."

Burt (who, much to Rory and Helen's excitement, appeared to be mixing up some very attractive drink), checked back into the conversation and added, "I was just telling him the same thing," with a smile at Blaine.

Blaine couldn't help but feel a surge of pride, even if the curiosity he'd pushed to the back of his mind was still piqued. He looked up at Burt, grateful for his words, but was again amusedly distracted by Helen.

"So you're sticking around for the music, yes?" she asked, clapping Blaine on the shoulder.

"Of course," Blaine nodded, and Helen clapped her hands together excitedly. "I got like a two-second preview of his fiddling skills the other day," he laughed, "so I can't wait to see what he's capable of."

"And if you think this bird is crazy _now_," Rory said to Blaine, taking Helen's shoulders in his hands and squeezing them affectionately, a mischievous grin on his face, "Stick around long enough and you'll get to see what she's like when her twenty-one-year-old arse is completely _bolloxed._"

Blaine turned to Helen and grinned, "Twenty-one _today_?"

She nodded, and Blaine gave her a warm "Congratulations!"

"Ah, you're kind," she said, patting him again on the back.

"Oh God, they found you…"

Blaine turned at the sound of another familiar voice, and saw Kurt approaching the bar, violin case in hand. Blaine just gave Kurt a reassuring grin, letting him know that yes, they had swarmed him, but no, they hadn't frightened him away. If anything, they had made him want to stay as long as he possibly could.

"Ah, our intentions are nothing but sound, I assure you," Helen said to Kurt, who shot her a teasingly skeptical look before pulling her into a tight hug and smiling, "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

"And…" Burt brought what looked like a full pint over to Helen, and when she and Kurt parted, handed it over. "For the birthday girl," he laughed. He then uncorked a second beer and handed it to Kurt, who took it gratefully and moved to sit next to Blaine. The two watched fondly as Helen took the flask in her hand, leaned over the bar to kiss Burt on the cheek, then raised her glass in cheers to Rory before taking a long, gratuitous swig. Rory and Burt applauded her enthusiastically when she set down the flask and pulled Rory into another hug.

Blaine turned to Kurt, whose grin could not have been bigger.

"They can get a little wild," he said, "but those two… were pretty much my best friends growing up."

"I love 'em," Blaine said, with a shake of his head. "Really, they… they made me feel right at home."

"You sure they didn't freak you out?" Kurt laughed. "And that includes my dad," he whispered, with a conspiratorial glance at his father (who was busy watching and laughing at Rory and Helen's antics while they passed the flask back and forth).

Blaine laid a hand on top of Kurt's, and squeezed it reassuringly. "He couldn't have been nicer. Honestly. Although," he added, with a mischievous smirk, "I have to admit, it _does _seem like the three of them have been scheming a little. Maybe trying to… influence you? Influence… _us_?"

"Oh, dear…" Kurt sighed, shooting Blaine that wide-eyed look he got when he knew trouble was about. "I…" he shook his head, then laughed, "I wouldn't put it past them. But…" his smile didn't fade, but it suddenly became timid, careful, and more guarded when he said, slowly, deliberately, "who says we need influencing?"

Beneath his fingers, Blaine felt Kurt adjust his hand so that their fingers could intertwine. And he squeezed Blaine's hand, and Blaine squeezed back, and just stared, amazed, into Kurt's eyes.

Even if just for a moment, every bit of uncertainty and doubt and worry Blaine felt when it came to this relationship with Kurt – whether about Blaine himself, he and Kurt as friends, he and Kurt as boyfriends, or Kurt and whatever ghosts from his past still haunted him today – completely dissolved. And Kurt was sitting in front of him, holding his hand tightly, telling him with his actions and expressions and now his words that he _wanted _this. He wanted it, the same way Blaine wanted it.

"Kurt… do you mean…"

"Kurt!"

In another instant, Helen was by Kurt's side, animatedly attempting to drag him away by the arm.

"I didn't get you a slot for nothing, kid…"

Blaine laughed when Kurt gave him a look, then whined, "_Already_?"

"Yes, _already,_" Helen mimicked. "I signed you up for "Jug Of Punch," so now we just have to pick some lucky bastard to strum along on the guitar…"

"Oh, well…" Kurt turned and gestured toward Blaine, presumably in one last attempt to make sure they could stick together for a while, but Blaine had to admit that his stomach sank a bit when Kurt said, "Blaine's an amazing guitarist."

Helen cocked an eyebrow at him and drawled slyly, "Ah, is that so…?"

"Wha… no, no I mean, I… Kurt, I couldn't…"

"Blaine, you completely could. I've seen you play, remember?" he smiled. And out of the corner of his eye, Blaine saw Burt with his arms crossed over his chest, biting his bottom lip as he tried not to chuckle at Blaine's expense.

"Ever do any improv, boy? Can you follow along?"

While the prospect of getting up in front of an unfamiliar group of people (Kurt's family, no less) and attempting to follow a violin to reproduce the guitar part in a key he didn't know, at a tempo he was unfamiliar with, to a song he'd never heard before was daunting to say the very least, there was something in the way Kurt was looking at him that made him want to say _yes. _It was just like the look he had had when Blaine told him to shake things up for his audition: he looked nervous and thrilled and so very excited and so very much like he wanted to take Blaine with him.

"I, um… I guess I could try?"

"Aye, there he is!" once again, Helen slapped Blaine on the back, and Blaine mused vaguely that the alcohol was making her progressively more violent than normal before Kurt clapped his hands together excitedly, then took Blaine by the hand and pulled him toward the stage.

At the sight of Helen and Rory setting up chairs and microphones, the rest of the patrons applauded enthusiastically in anticipation.

Kurt, who'd been eyeing Blaine with a sparkle in his eye since they left the bar, opened up one of the three guitar cases just to the right of the stage and pulled out what Blaine instantly recognized as a Gibson Hummingbird. He whistled in admiration as Kurt adjusted the strap and slung the thing around Blaine's shoulders.

"It's my dad's," he said, at Blaine's expression. "He hasn't had much time to play it recently, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind hearing it make music again."

Kurt handed Blaine a small green pick with the name of the restaurant printed across it in gold calligraphy, and Blaine heaved an anxious sigh.

Blaine looked up when he suddenly felt Kurt's hands on his shoulders, and saw Kurt standing there, looking him straight in the eye, and smiling warmly as he chuckled, "I honestly can't believe you caved as fast as you did."

"Oh, shut up," Blaine laughed, rolling his eyes. "I was expecting some words of comfort or assurance or something..."

Kurt suddenly looked at him, incredulously. "Are… are you nervous?"

Blaine hung his head to hide an embarrassed smile, then looked back at Kurt and whispered, "Please don't judge me. It's just… it's your family, and, and _you, _and…"

"I think it's adorable," Kurt interjected, tightening his grip on Blaine's shoulders. Then, nearly giving Blaine goose bumps, Kurt leaned in and whispered in Blaine's ear, "I think _you're _adorable."

And before Blaine could even let Kurt know that _Yes, I saw what you did there, _Kurt gave his shoulders one last squeeze, then bounded onto the stage and unclasped the lid of his violin case, pulling out the instrument and the bow to the encouraging cheers of their audience.

Blaine hopped onto the stage as well, where Rory and Helen had set up three chairs and three microphone stands. Vaguely Blaine wondered who the third chair was for, but his question was answered when Helen, surprising Blaine yet again, took a seat and adjusted the microphone stand as to amplify the sound of the accordion on her lap. She sat on the right.

Kurt took the chair in the middle, and adjusted his own microphone so as to magnify the sound of his violin. He played a few warm-up scales, and Helen followed his lead as the enthusiastic crowd continued their cheers of encouragement.

Finally, Blaine took the chair to Kurt's left.

"Allrighty, Blainers," Helen called from the far right, across Kurt who was doing a little tuning, "You're going to start off with a D minor, and your first changes are going to be D minor to A minor, then A minor to F, and… well, you'll pick it up," she winked. Blaine nodded and leaned in over the guitar, spreading his legs apart and getting it into a comfortable position before silently marking the first few changes.

"Oh, one more thing," she added. Blaine looked up, only to a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she said, "Try and keep up."

Tapping her foot against the wooden stage… "One, two, three, four."

The first note hit Blaine like a bullet, and before he could even take it in, Kurt had played fifteen, twenty-five, forty, sixty notes, and if Blaine stared at his fingers too long he'd surely have gone silly from the agility and the complexity and the damn _speed… _

And excitement of their crowd mixed with the combined sound of the accordion and the violin and the hundreds of notes Helen and Kurt seemed to be able to produce per half-minute sent Blaine reeling into the melody, and he went back and forth, back and forth between Kurt's racing fingers and his own, matching his changes and adding a whole new layer of sound to the quick and urgent and not quite dark but rather bold and adventurous string of notes…

The melody wound in and out of major and minor keys, hitting sharps and flats at every turn and inlet and jumping octaves at a time to add to the animation and excitement of the piece, all the while never _stopping. _From one bar to the next, between measures and key changes, the tempo _did not rest_. It took every bit of concentration and focus Blaine had in him to keep with the speed and the changes and with _Kurt, _who looked as though nothing else in the world existed to him in that moment. It was just him, and his violin, and the endless list of mysterious and wonderful things the two of them were capable of.

The song was building to a bridge, and Blaine could feel it approaching, and somehow without even knowing the song by heart he transitioned into just the right chord when Helen gave the accordion a rest and gestured to Kurt as he sped through the bridge in a new, hopeful, optimistic, but equally fast and furious major key, evoking another round of support from their audience. Blaine grinned widely at the rally of applause for Kurt, who despite the enthusiasm did not break focus even for a moment.

When Helen jumped back in, Blaine felt the song reaching a climactic tempo, with changes quicker and wilder and more unexpected than before. Together, the three of them pulled through the final measures until there was but _one _beat of a break, before the final high note spiraled down, down into the very last one, which Helen and Kurt and Blaine held onto until it faded away, melting into the cheering crowd.

Blaine didn't realize just how hunched over he'd been until he sat up straight and felt his shoulders crack, releasing all the tension that had built up over the past three and a half minutes. He looked over at Kurt and Helen, who were both smiling broadly in his direction.

Kurt reached over to him and clasped him on the shoulder, and Blaine got a little shiver of excitement when he pulled him into a one-armed hug.

Blaine leaned his head against Kurt's shoulder, feeling like he belonged there, like he could _definitely _get used to this.

* * *

Three hours, six songs, and several drinks later, Blaine and Kurt were helping Burt set the chairs up on the tables for the night when the last few patrons filtered towards the front door, including Rory and a particularly slaphappy, unsteady Helen who, evidently, wasn't quite ready to leave.

"You, sir," she said, pulling away from Rory and taking Blaine by the shoulders, "are _brilliant. _You know that?"

Blaine took her by the waist to hold her steady, and shot Kurt a smile as she fell into his arms. "Fecking _brilliant, _let me tell you."

"Oh really?" Blaine chuckled.

She nodded dutifully, gave him an unnecessarily forceful pat on the cheek, then pulled close to his ear and annunciated loud enough for anyone within thirty feet of them to hear, "You're a _beautiful _fella and Kurt's one lucky boy, and I'm not just running my mouth on you because I'm a bit gee-eyed as it were…"

Rory sidled by, took one of her arms, slung it around his neck and announced, "Okay, Helen, leave Blaine be…" with a wink at Blaine before leading her towards the door.

"Ah, shut your gob, I'm just bein' friendly…"

"Oh, aye…" Rory turned back to Burt, Kurt, and Blaine, and called, "Have a good night, you crazy lot!"

Blaine and Kurt just waved, trying not to laugh too hard at poor Helen's expense when Burt called back, "You get her home safe, bud, you hear?"

"Sure thing, Uncle. Mum's got the car waitin' right outside. See you, take care!"

The door closed behind them, and Blaine became aware of a slight headache and a vague ringing in his ears in the silence. Regardless, he was fairly certain that in that moment, _nothing _would dampen his spirits.

He and Kurt plopped down into two stools right in front of where Burt was scrubbing clean the last few beer flasks, and Kurt let his fall unceremoniously onto Blaine's shoulder. Blaine turned to watch him amusedly as he nestled there, as would a puppy or a kitten.

"So what're you kids gettin' up to now?"

"Sleep."

Kurt muttered it so quickly and with so little circumstance, both Blaine and Burt had to laugh.

"Well, I've gotta head out to pick up Carole from the airport, so you wanna close up for me tonight, bud?" Burt handed a small silver ring that held three brass keys over to Kurt, who took it blindly, and nodded, sleepily, in the affirmative.

Burt put away the last few glasses and made his way around the bar. Kurt hoisted himself off of Blaine's shoulder to give his father one last hug, and Blaine stood up to shake his hand.

"Blaine, it was good to finally meet you," he said, his handshake firm and his face hard, but with that hint of a smile Blaine was starting to get used to.

"You too, sir, thank you so much for having me tonight."

"Well, feel free to come back any time," he said. "I know that'd make Kurt happy…" out of the corner of his eye, Blaine saw Kurt drop his gaze to the floor, biting his bottom lip with a small smile… "and it'd make the rest of us happy too."

Blaine felt something like pride and gratitude and excitement all swell in his chest at once, and he made an extra effort _not _to stammer when he said, "Thank you… so much. That… that means a lot. I really appreciate it."

"My pleasure, kid. Well," he clasped his hands together, then made for the door, "I'm off, but you two have a good night, all right? Have a safe ride home, Blaine."

As soon as the door was closed, Blaine and Kurt turned to look at each other, almost as if on cue.

Maybe it was the memory of the drunken Helen and how she could barely keep her hands off Blaine, maybe it was the thrill of having given so many successful performances in one night, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe a mixture of everything. But whatever the reason, both Blaine and Kurt began to laugh. Softly, just under their breath, but it felt almost absurdly appropriate in that moment.

In another instant, they were moving towards each other as if by way of some sort of magnetic pull, and Kurt's face was tucked against Blaine's neck, their arms around each other's backs in a warm embrace. And once again, Blaine found himself never, ever wanting to move.

Alas, they had to break apart so that Kurt could finish closing up shop for his father, but the clasping of their hands was almost equally as comforting.

Kurt led Blaine behind the bar where there was a small doorway by the keg that led down to the cellar, where Kurt would make sure the pantries and refrigerators were set properly for the night. And on the way down, he amused and fascinated Blaine with stories of how he, Rory, and Helen would come down here as children to find out what their parents had gotten them for Christmas, or to sneak into the pantry to swipe his mother's biscuits, or so he and Rory could gang up on Helen and tell her ghost stories of only the most unnerving nature.

Blaine mused that based on his first impression, "I'd have thought _Helen _would be the one to tell _you two_ the ghost stories."

Kurt laughed as he made his way over to the small control box by the pantry, examining the tiny, digital temperature settings and turning a few dials. "I think we thickened her skin over the years. She used to be the shy one, believe it or not."

"Whoa…"

Now that he could see it, Blaine wasn't sure how he missed it.

While every other corner of the room housed shelves and crates full of bottles and bags and ingredients of all kinds, there was one far corner of the cellar that held something quite different: a very old, white-washed concert grand piano.

Kurt turned curiously to see what Blaine was looking at, and smiled when he did. "Ah, that…" he took a few steps toward it, "that thing's been down here for years. It got pretty worn out, but it was the first addition to the stage upstairs when this place was brand new, so we didn't have the heart to get rid of it… it's pretty darn old," he laughed.

"It's beautiful," Blaine said, moving toward it as well. As he got closer, he realized that its edges were lined with thin, arabesque designs in green and gold. "I can only imagine what it must have looked like when it was first, you know… manufactured. May I…?" he gestured toward the closed lid, and Kurt nodded happily, lifting it to reveal the worn black and white keys beneath.

Blaine took a seat, placed his fingers against the keys as if they were breakable, and transitioned smoothly into the first few notes…

"I love "Arabesque," Kurt said.

Blaine smiled up at him. "Me too."

He continued, and through his peripheral vision he saw Kurt hoist himself gracefully onto the piano, as he had done back in the Palladium all those weeks ago. Blaine made an effort to stay focused on his playing, but could see Kurt moving… bringing his legs up onto the piano as well, then crawling toward Blaine and lying down on his stomach, resting his chin on his folded arms so that his head and gaze hovered just above Blaine's hands as they danced their way through Debussy.

Blaine could just feel Kurt's breath against his own cheeks, and was becoming achingly aware of how close he and Kurt were, once again.

Suddenly, without any warning at all, Blaine felt… exposed. He tensed, and just as he had been reaching the first climax of the music, his playing slowed, and he stilled, and he looked up. And that was when he realized that Kurt hadn't been watching his hands. He had been watching _him. _

Their eyes locked.

Blaine's hands kept moving, but more and more slowly as the seconds ticked by, and Kurt's gaze became stronger, more persistent, more penetrating.

He touched one note, two, three…

And Blaine leaned in, closer and closer, eyes never once leaving Kurt's…

Until, at the touching of their lips, they closed.

And though he stopped playing, he felt as though somehow, the music was still there, hanging in the air, ringing in their ears, burying itself deep down inside them as they finally _found _each other, touched each other, tasted each other.

Blaine brought his hands up from the keys and took Kurt's soft, pale but flushed face in his hands as he pressed in closer, the feeling of Kurt's bottom lip between his teeth sending his mind reeling and his heart racing…

Kurt began to hoist himself up, and separated from Blaine for one painful moment while he adjusted to sit with his feet on the piano keys, so that when Blaine stood up from the bench, he was standing between Kurt's open legs, groping desperately at Kurt's neck so that he could pull him in once again, feeling so needy but wanting Kurt so _badly _that he didn't even care; didn't care about the moans of want that he let slip from his mouth as Kurt's tongue found his, didn't care about the fact that the piano keys beneath Kurt's feet sounded out tunelessly as he writhed with every touch… didn't care about _anything_ in that moment, except for Kurt.

The more they touched and the longer they kissed, the more desperate Blaine became, wanting, _needing_ to feel Kurt's breath and heartbeat and warmth…

Blaine took Kurt's waist in his hands and pushed him further back onto the piano, then climbed up onto the lid with him, the keys beneath his feet sounding out once again in a kind of distorted melody before both he and Kurt were on top of the piano, together.

The sight in front of him made Blaine stop still: there was Kurt, legs outspread, lying back but supporting himself on his forearms, his hair tousled, his neck and face flushed, his lips pink and swollen and his eyes so dark that with one look Blaine could feel him _begging_ for more…

Blaine crawled forward until he was settled, again, between Kurt's legs, his hands pressing down on either side of Kurt, who was looking up so desperately, and who then reached up and with one hand pulled Blaine down again into another kiss, this one, if possible, even deeper and stronger than the last.

Just as he had imagined, Blaine could feel Kurt's heart pounding against his own when he lay down on top of him, their chests pressed together as they cherished each other's necks, Blaine peppering Kurt's with kisses and Kurt nuzzling into Blaine's, soaking up his warmth.

And with every whine that escaped Kurt's lips, Blaine knew it wouldn't be long before he… and Kurt… began to lose themselves…

At a sound like a gunshot both Blaine and Kurt gasped violently and jerked into sitting positions, Kurt gripping the front of Blaine's shirt, fearing the worst…

Until they saw: one of the many glass jars of preserves on the nearby shelf had fallen from its spot and hit the concrete floor with a frighteningly loud _clang, _but miraculously managed to not shatter into a million tiny pieces.

Blaine was still breathing harder than ever and his heart felt ready to pound right through his chest, but as he looked over at Kurt (who was clearly in a similar state), he couldn't help but burst out laughing, so very _relieved_. And, he was glad to see, neither could Kurt.

"Good… Lord…" Kurt breathed, falling, just as relieved, into Blaine's open arms, wrapping one arm around his stomach and resting his head on his shoulder. "I… I honestly thought we were caught there… for a second…"

"By your dad?" Blaine breathed, laughing at himself for being more than a little terrified by the thought.

"Oh, God," Kurt cried, heaving another sigh of relief as he laughed, "I don't even want to _think _about that. Can you imagine…" another breath, "how many months of _awkward_ would follow an incident like _that_?"

"I'd rather not try to." Blaine grinned down at Kurt and held him close as his breathing eventually evened out.

"Well," he said, after a few moments, "I think it's safe to say the mood is officially obliterated."

Kurt swatted him playfully on the stomach before pulling away from him and agreeing, "Yeah… pretty much," with an amused sigh.

Blaine hopped off the piano and wordlessly reached for Kurt, who smiled (clearly seeing the connection Blaine had made, back to his first few weeks in the chamber) and placed his hands trustingly on Blaine's shoulders, allowing him to take his waist and lift him down off the piano, placing his feet neatly back onto the floor.

Only this time, Blaine thought with a giddy little grin that made Kurt bite his bottom lip in anticipation, _This time, I can kiss him. _

And he did. Three times before they made their way back upstairs, twice before they left the restaurant and Kurt locked the front door, and, as a shameless tribute to every romantic comedy Blaine had ever seen, one last time before he climbed into the cab and rode, never having felt more _alive_ in his life, into the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**As per usual, thank you all for being patient. I'm gearing up to go back to school, so I haven't had a lot of time to sit down and write. Once I found the time, though, this chapter kinda flowed right out of me. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. If possible, I definitely recommend listening to Yann Tiersen's "Comptine d'un autre **_**é**_**t**_**é**_** – L'apr**_**è**_**s-midi" before or during your reading of this chapter. It's a spectacular piece, and it was so very helpful during the writing process. **

**Warnings: **

This is a heavy chapter, absolutely key to the climax of the story, which is coming up very, very soon.

This chapter is rated M. It is a comparatively mild M as far as fanfiction goes, kind of a "T verging on M," but just a fair warning that things are about to get a little heated.

**Thank you so much for being great readers, everyone. Enjoy. **

The Soloist – Chapter VIII

_Yann Tiersen: "Comptine d'un autre été - L'après-midi"_

Rehearsals reconvened after Christmas break on January fourth.

It was nearly the end of a long, grueling day, and the exhaustion in the chamber was palpable. One body in the sea of weary musicians, however, appeared lithe and vital and so full of energy he might as well have been the only one playing. With his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the veins in his forearms appeared prominent beneath the stage lights as he dragged his bow along the strings of his instrument, holding out long, bright, beautiful notes and then bouncing from one to the next, never once missing a beat in the melody. The muscles in his neck looked tense and strained and yet his posture remained proper, perfect. All the while, no matter how focused or alert he became, he wore just the subtlest ghost of a smile, most likely an aftereffect of the passionate kisses he and Blaine had shared in the practice studio (unbeknownst to their peers, of course) just before rehearsal had begun.

And Blaine couldn't take his eyes off him.

* * *

_There's so much… life, so much raw… human… energy. Okay, okay… two verses, refrain, one verse, refrain… I need a bridge… with a… B… flat… B flat, the… the look he gave me right before he… he held my waist… and then… D minor, we kissed, and… God, the taste, and the… warmth, and the… C… C minor fall, from a D minor… back to a B flat… and then… repeat. Repeat, because God, I never want it to end… I just… never, ever… want it to… end… _

_B flat, D minor, C minor, B flat… repeat._

* * *

On January fifth, Blaine took the subway to 5th Avenue and 42nd Street.

He found Kurt – scholarly with his glasses and his nametag – shelving books in nonfiction. He wasn't sure how long he'd stood there in the quiet, nearly empty study room and watched Kurt working, careful and so very precise in his actions, before the captivating figure turned and saw his unassuming visitor. At the sight of Blaine Kurt's eyes lit up like stars and he smiled. He glanced from side to side, then waved Blaine over to the shelves, conspiratorially, making Blaine grin. Blaine set the bag that held Kurt's surprise lunch on a nearby desk, then took the heavy stack of books from Kurt's arms so that he was free to be kissed chastely on the corner of his mouth. When Blaine pulled away, Kurt was blushing.

Blaine remained in the study room and helped him shelve books until his lunch break, the two of them speaking in hushed tones and holding back laughter at jokes that were made ten times funnier by the fact that Kurt's boss was three shelves away, and they knew they'd be in for it if they made so much as an audible chuckle.

And Blaine was mesmerized by him.

* * *

_He leaves and I feel this… E flat… again, and again, and again, until… he's gone, G minor. The refrain… no, no, bad… but it's there, I need it, because it can't… it can't end… the second half. Just the second… B flat, D major, and F sharp, no, no… it… hurts and that makes it… diminished. F sharp diminished… _

_B flat, D major, G minor, F sharp diminished, A major, F sharp diminished (seven?), G minor. Repeat._

* * *

On January seventh, Kurt and Blaine lingered behind after rehearsal for some alone time as well as a much-needed sanity chat. Blaine collapsed, spread-eagled, onto the stage floor. Kurt laughed, then knelt beside him, leaned down, placed a hand over his heart and kissed him tenderly on the lips, the cheek, the eyebrow… he could have lulled Blaine to sleep, truthfully, and Blaine told him so. Kurt blushed, bubbled with laughter, then hoisted himself up and asked Blaine how life outside the chamber was treating him.

It was such a simple thing, really; it was nothing more than a "how's your week been?" But it was the fact that it was _Kurt _who asked, because he genuinely wanted to know, wanted to be involved in Blaine's life, wanted to listen and empathize and offer advice if needed that made Blaine's heart swell.

Kurt propped his violin at his neck and played quietly as he meandered around the stage, listening intently as Blaine spilled it all. He told Kurt about his parents and about how even though there was plenty of time, he was already worried about what they would push him to do when his time in the chamber was done. He talked about Cooper and how much he had missed him, despite all of his quirks. He mentioned Wes and his new girlfriend, Sarah, and told Kurt that he was worried for Wes. Kurt asked why, and Blaine proceeded to explain that Wes had had a rather rocky love life in the past, and no matter how much time went by or sympathy Blaine offered, the wounds remained fresh, and refused to heal.

Interestingly, Kurt stopped playing during the last anecdote. He stopped his wandering and stood with his arms crossed over his midriff just a few paces away from Blaine, with an expression that could only have been described as contemplative.

And more than anything else in that moment, Blaine wished he could have known what was going on in Kurt's head.

* * *

_Verse, refrain, repeat… repeat, repeat, again, and again… wrong. Wrong, wrong… it's not the same, it shouldn't be the same thing, over and over again because that's not what it is. God, it's anything but. It's never the same, it's always changing, always, always… it's… it's a trill with the G minor, and it's played in octaves during the refrain, and then it gets slower, quieter… _

_Trill, octaves, pianissimo._

* * *

Kurt surprised Blaine with an early-morning phone call on the thirteenth, excitedly relaying the news that Rory and Helen had gotten four tickets to see concert pianist Ana-Marie Vera (one of Blaine's idols, as he had most likely mentioned to Rory during some pre-rehearsal chatting) that night at a small venue downtown. Practically tumbling out of bed and onto the floor with enthusiasm, Blaine accepted the invitation gratefully.

Dinner before the show had officially proved to Blaine that Rory and Helen were just as entertaining sober as they were drunk. The conversation moved from topic to topic faster than Kurt's fingers could move from note to note on his fiddle, and they covered everything from Helen's supposedly numerous suitors, Rory's thoroughly amusing and creative bucket list, and Kurt and Blaine's previously unrealized mutual obsession with _Sherlock Holmes_ novels (and, Blaine was thrilled to discover as he'd now have someone to share his passion with, movies).

Kurt was smart and fun and beautiful to Blaine no matter when, no matter where, but he was even more so around Rory and Helen. He was less inhibited with this small group as opposed to with the entire chamber, and it brought Blaine so much contentment to see him laughing, teasing, and talking animatedly about his childhood with the other two. It warmed Blaine's heart in a way. It made him smile.

After her very first concerto, Ana-Marie Vera had nearly moved Blaine to tears. Kurt looked over at him in the dark theatre during the first round of applause and smiled endearingly, then took his hand and held it tightly all through the following sonata.

Blaine had been so enchanted by the pianist that he almost didn't notice Kurt fidgeting slightly in his seat. Blaine glanced down out of the corner of his eye, and saw Kurt pull a pen out of his pocket and scribble a little note in the corner of his program:

_SH - Hans Zimmer? _

Blaine made a quick mental note to ask about it later, but was almost instantly pulled back into the breathtaking sonata.

* * *

_Forte, forte, forte… piano… piano… pianissimo. Repeat._

* * *

On January seventeenth, Blaine met Kurt for a late dinner at a little tapas bar in Chelsea. Despite the heavy snowfall (and in a way _because_ of it, since the two shared a love of traipsing around sidewalks and swinging around streetlamps in the snow-covered city at night), Blaine brought along a newspaper so that they could peruse movie times. By the time they had finished their dinner, though, the perusing had become a mutual rant about how modern movies almost always disappoint when compared with classics.

Somewhere along in the conversation, after the bill had been paid, Kurt suddenly lit up, took Blaine by the hand, and declared that he had been hit by a brilliant idea.

No matter how much Blaine pressed, Kurt just smiled mischievously and refused to tell him where they were going (shutting him up with a kiss several times along the way), until finally, they arrived in front of a dilapidated little movie house with several foreign titles in crooked letters displayed across the marquee.

Blaine just stared, open-mouthed, until Kurt explained, "If you can't understand the movie, you can't very well be disappointed, now, can you?"

Blaine's breath was visible in the chilled night air when he grinned and laughed aloud. Before he could even ask if they were seriously doing this, Kurt was pulling him toward the box office and purchasing two tickets to some French film that Blaine wasn't even going to _try_ to pronounce.

Kurt was absolutely right; it did not disappoint. That is, despite the fact that the acting was awful, the camera work amateur at best, and the continuity errors were blaringly obvious, Blaine had the time of his life laughing at the most absurd scenes, listening to Kurt's rough translations of only the cheesiest lines…

And, when the scenes were calm and the dialogue quiet, interlacing his fingers with Kurt's, caressing the back of his hand, moving in a little closer, wrapping his arms around him…

And kissing him, tenderly, until the movie was over.

* * *

_Andante… sustained…_

* * *

With Wes staying at a relative's for the weekend, Blaine invited Kurt over to his house for what they both agreed was a _necessary_ movie night on January twenty-ninth.

Kurt arrived around 6:30, pink-nosed and shivering from the cold, and Blaine wasted no time helping him out of his coat and boots and pulling him into his arms, offering him his warmth, which Kurt accepted gratefully, nuzzling against his neck, soaking him in.

Kurt took a seat on the carpeted floor of the small living room and emptied his bag full of DVDs (among them, Blaine saw appreciatively, both _Sherlock Holmes _films as well as an assortment of Tim Burton classics) while Blaine brought in two steaming hot mugs of hot chocolate, then added another log to the already glowing fireplace. It wasn't until he had handed Kurt a mug and then taken a seat on the floor next to him that he realized how decidedly romantic the whole thing was; late in the dark evening, the blazing fire, their closeness on the living room floor, barefoot and most layers gone…

And there was something about the way the amber glow of the fireplace accented Kurt's profile as he sifted through the movies, looking so happy yet so serene at the same time, that evoked a feeling deep in the pit of Blaine's stomach, a feeling, he felt, that had been there for so long, but had been hiding from him, until now. Something low, warm, and tingling, deep down in his belly…

A hot flash shot down Blaine's spine when Kurt suddenly turned to face him, his eyes brighter than ever as they reflected the flames beside them. He smiled that gorgeous, breathtaking smile, before playfully head butting Blaine in the shoulder then heading over to the DVD player and sliding in the disc for _Amélie, _"A _fantastic _French film, to make up for the horrendous one we laughed through last week," Kurt explained. And also, he shared in a whisper when he had set aside his chocolate and curled up to Blaine, resting his head over his heart, "my favorite movie… probably of all time."

Right from the beginning, Blaine was enchanted. It was a visually stunning film, conceptually fascinating, musically genius…

But all the while, Blaine couldn't shake the feeling swelling deep in his stomach with every passing moment. He felt almost as if it were a palpable thing that Kurt would feel, laying as close as he was, but really, Blaine didn't want it to go away. He wasn't sure what to do, or what he wanted, until Kurt moved.

He pressed closer to Blaine's body, wrapping his arm around him, beginning to stroke gently up and down his side. Soon, Blaine began to do the same, dragging his fingers along the curve of Kurt's spine, the feeling of him shivering beneath his touch endlessly thrilling. With every stroke, Kurt pressed in closer, closer, until he began to bring himself up, up so that his cheek brushed against Blaine's jaw line, up until he was close enough for Blaine to take his face in his hands and pull him in for a kiss.

Kurt kissed back, slow and deliberate, taking Blaine's bottom lip in his teeth and sucking in, not hard enough to hurt, but just hard enough to make Blaine gasp sharply at the pressure.

Blaine took Kurt's waist in his hands and pulled him down, down to the floor where he could lay his head on one of their many pillows and Kurt could fall just on top of him, the weight of his body on Blaine's own causing the burning sensation in Blaine's belly to spread to throughout him, right to his very fingertips. He threw his arms around Kurt's neck and Kurt's hands claimed his waist, his fingers digging into his sides as he and Blaine tasted each other's tongues and Blaine moaned again when Kurt took hold of his bottom lip…

And Blaine felt himself beginning to ache for Kurt in a way that was painful and desperate and almost frightening, but was only magnified when Kurt's hip and upper thigh pressed down with heat and pressure, right between Blaine's legs.

"Kur… right, _right… there…_"

The pressure and the friction and the heat against his groin all melted right into the fire in his stomach and he felt as though his blood was pulsing more rapidly through his veins and his body's temperature was rising dangerously high, but he couldn't even care because Kurt was here, on top of him, the taste of him still lingering on his lips and in his mouth and his hot breath tickling the edge of Blaine's jaw as his hands held firm to Blaine's sides, his shoulders, his chest…

In a surge of desire Blaine took hold of Kurt and flipped them over, pushing Kurt to the floor and lying on top of him, taking his neck in his hands and kissing him harder and deeper than before. Kurt reacted swiftly by wrapping his arms around Blaine's back and pulling his hips down, down to press against Kurt's, just as before. Only this time, Blaine put the heat and pressure and friction between Kurt's legs, and he heard Kurt gasp sharply into the kiss at the contact, which made Blaine bring his hands down from Kurt's neck and onto his waist, where he held him tightly as he continued to moan while Blaine moved up and down, up and down against his jeans…

In a haze, Blaine gripped Kurt's hips while Kurt writhed beneath him, and when his bodily instincts finally surpassed those of his mind, his fingers found the hem of Kurt's shirt and slid beneath it, first pushing up over the silky, smooth skin of his stomach while Kurt emitted more desperate but muffled noises into the kiss, then down again, tracing over the muscle of his torso, down to the beltline of his jeans where one hand teased the exposed stretch of skin below his bellybutton and the other ran down over his jeans and against his groin where he instantly felt heat and strain and desire just under the firm grip of his hand…

Until there was a great, forceful pressure against his chest, and he was suddenly thrown back at the sound of a helpless, terrified, strangled scream… from Kurt.

One look at Kurt – Kurt whose hair was mussed, whose shirt was rumpled, whose eyes were glassy, whose body was shaking head-to-toe and who had tears streaming down his face – and Blaine's world came crashing down around him. Blaine's entire body convulsed when he realized that that last cry was not a cry of desire.

It was a cry to _stop. _

"Oh my God…" Blaine was shaking, beginning to cry himself, and he felt like he was going to vomit, and he didn't recognize the sound of his own voice as he began to stammer through his tears, "Kurt, Kurt, oh my God, I'm so sorry, Kurt… Kurt, did I… did I… hurt… force… hurt you… pressure you… Kurt, oh my God, I didn't… I didn't mean… I didn't mean to… _Kurt, believe me, please, _if I did something… to you… that you didn't want_… I didn't mean to…" _

Kurt looked _petrified. _He looked like a child who'd just awoken from some hellish nightmare, like he'd seen something more horrific than anything the normal human being could possibly imagine.

"Blaine," he said, stopping Blaine's stammering instantly. His voice was halting, guarded, higher and more childlike than ever before as he spoke, between restricted sobs, "You… you didn't…" he swallowed, his mouth and voice dry, "You didn't… do anything… wro-"

"Oh Kurt, don't do that, I pushed you, I made you, you didn't want it…"

"No!" he cried. A sob escaped his lips, and he closed in on himself even more, bringing his legs in and wrapping his arms around himself. "N-N-No. I did… Blaine. I-I-I did, I promise, I wanted it… so much…"

"Kurt, don't say that if it's not tru-"

"It is! It… it…"

His voice was gone, and his face crumbled before Blaine's eyes, and he began crying, sobbing into his hands, harder than anyone Blaine had ever seen sob in his life.

Blaine sat there, feet away from Kurt, and with every minute he spent listening to the tormented music of Kurt's tears he felt more and more like his insides, his heart, his very soul was being crushed. He wanted to rush to his side and pull him into his arms and hold him forever and never, ever, ever let him go, but at the same time he was terrified of what would happen if he tried, terrified of what more damage he could possibly cause, what more pain he could inflict upon the last person in the world he would ever choose to hurt. He was frozen.

Kurt's sobbing eventually became quiet, but Blaine could tell he was still crying. So he sat still, and waited, until finally, Kurt's hands fell from his face, and he spoke, timidly, fearfully, making eye contact with Blaine as he did.

"Blaine…" he said.

Blaine nodded, swallowing hard, willing himself not to vomit, collapse, break down right then and there. "Yes, Kurt?"

Kurt swallowed hard as well, and managed to utter, his tone still strangled, "Blaine, I… I-I… I have to go. I have to l-leave…"

"Kurt-"

Tentatively, never taking his eyes off Blaine, Kurt began to move. "N-N-No, Blaine. I have to. Just… just…" he put a hand on the couch, stood up, then backed away two steps, wrapping his arms protectively around himself… "Just… please… _don't follow me,_" he said, and more tears spilled from his eyes as he did. His breathing was fast and uneven and he was fighting back every impulse he had to break down and sob once more.

"Kurt, wait… wait! Just tell me what's going-"

Blaine made a move to get up but stopped instantly when Kurt backed away, looking at Blaine as though he were some dangerous, terrifying animal and Kurt was his prey. The thought made Blaine even sicker in the stomach than he already was, and more tears stung at the backs of his eyes.

"N-N-No, no, no, Blaine… please. Please. Just… just don't… I'm going to leave… don't follow me. But… but Blaine…" Blaine's face fell in a mixture of frustration, worry, and complete and utter confusion, and it only made Kurt cry, "God, Blaine, please! Please, please j-j-just listen… listen, please. I'm going to leave, but… but you have to know… you _have _to know, that you didn't do a-a-anything… anything wrong. _You have to k-k-know that…_"

Once he had backed to the door, he frantically put his feet into his boots and slid his arms into his coat, eyes never leaving Blaine, eyes watching to make sure Blaine wasn't following him…

In one final attempt to convince him of his innocence, Kurt pleaded through his sobs and through the tears falling freely from his eyes, "_Please, _know that, B-B-Blaine… this is _not your fault…_"

"Kurt, God, please, you're scaring me…" Blaine pressed on, still not recognizing his voice because of how shaky and watery and _desperate_ it was through his tears.

Kurt opened the front door, and looked back at Blaine, tears sparkling in the firelight.

"Please believe me, Blaine. This… this is… n-n-not… your… fault."

He took one step backwards, toward the snow-covered porch, and a cold wind blew in just as he said, one last time…

"_Don't follow me." _

And he was gone.

* * *

And that night, Blaine lay down beside his upright piano, amidst sheets upon sheets of staff paper with his own unintelligible script filling measures upon measures of staff with notes and chords and beats and breaks and trills and crescendos and octaves that were nothing but him. Nothing but Kurt. Every last one, right down to that goddamned F sharp diminished seven… was Kurt. That night, Blaine lay amidst the tortured melody that had taken him, wrapped itself around him, and crushed him to bits…

And cried himself to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Again, thank you all for being so patient, and for some of the most wonderful comments I've gotten in a long time! They never fail to make me smile. Without further ado, here's Chapter IX. **

**(For the last part of this chapter, visit copyrogueleader . tumblr . com and go to the tab titled "The Soloist" to listen to the song Kurt adapted for his solo).**

The Soloist – Chapter IX

"_The Muse"_

It was cold and dark when Blaine awoke. Cold, dark, and quiet.

He was curled up almost in the fetal position by the piano bench, still surrounded by sheets upon sheets of the composition that had haunted him all through his tumultuous sleep. But, he barely noticed them. He barely noticed the coldness, the darkness, the silence, the searing state of his throat, the parched nature of his mouth, the ache in his back, or the pain in his neck.

He had let Kurt – upset, distraught – wander out into icy, snowy, windy night. Alone.

Blaine pushed himself into a sitting position on the floor, cursing himself for how careless he'd been as the gravity of the situation began to weigh down on him. He'd been so confused and upset by what had happened, his common sense had vanished.

Congested from the crying and the cold, he took in a few uneven breaths and began feeling around in the darkness for his phone. He found it – over by the couch, where everything had happened – and flipped it open.

_3:14 AM. _

Mind spinning as the memories of the previous hours came back to him, Blaine frantically scrolled through his contacts until he came across _Kurt the Violinist, _and dialed.

The phone just rang, and rang, and rang.

And he dialed again, and it rang again. He dialed, it rang, again, again, and again.

Blaine tried to reason with himself, tried to assure himself that _Of course he's not answering his phone – it's 3:00 AM, and he was upset out of his mind when he got home. He curled up in bed and tried to sleep it off. He's home. Home, in the one-room above the bar. In bed. Safe. He didn't go anywhere else. He didn't do anything… anything else… _

A horrid feeling gripped Blaine low in the stomach, and once again, he scrolled through his contacts frantically until the bold lettering highlighted _Finn the Tall, _and he dialed.

And again, the phone just rang, and rang, and rang.

So he dialed again, and it rang again. He dialed, it rang, again, again, again, until…

"B… Blaine?"

"Finn?!"

"Yeah…" Blaine heaved a sigh and let his body relax against the couch. He was fairly sure he'd never been so happy to have someone answer a call in his entire life. "Yeah, it's… what happened, man?"

"Finn… Finn… I…" Blaine wanted to explain himself, apologize for hurting Kurt, find out what exactly he had done to Kurt, apologize to Finn for most likely prompting Kurt to frighten Finn when he (hopefully) got back home, find out if Kurt got home at all, know if Kurt was angry with him and if he would ever want to see him again, and make sure Kurt was safe all at the same time. He couldn't speak.

"Hold on," Finn said, his voice – Blaine was calmed to hear – soft, gentle, not angry in the slightest. "Just hold on, bud. Take a deep breath, okay?"

Blaine took a few moments to himself, knowing Finn would wait. He hung his head, resting his chin against his heaving chest, and allowed air to fill his lungs to their maximum capacity, then let it out slowly and deliberately, trying hard to clear his head.

He kept the phone at his ear, and just when he was feeling calm enough to speak again, Finn said, "I pushed Kurt hard to tell me what happened, but he wouldn't. He kept insisting, though, that you didn't hurt him. And…" he sighed, "and he's my brother; my kid brother who's never given me any reason not to trust him."

Voice just above a whisper, Blaine said, "You believe him?"

"I do," Finn replied, firmly. "And I will, until he or you gives me a reason not to."

Blaine let his eyelids fall shut. "I didn't hurt him, Finn," Blaine confirmed. But then softly, he added, "Well, if I did… if I did, I didn't mean to."

"I know."

There was nothing else Finn could have said to calm Blaine more. Everything he needed in that moment to know that he still had a chance of staying in Kurt's life seemed to be alive and well in those two words. He wasn't sure what it was, but something inside him told him that if Finn knew, Burt would know, and sweet Rory would know, and lovely, silly Helen would know, and Puck and the rest of the guys who were so eager to protect Kurt would know, and Blaine would still be Blaine, and maybe, just _maybe, _things could be okay.

Hot tears gathered at the corners of Blaine's eyes, and he whispered, "Thank you."

"Yeah, dude. Anything. You practically saved him, after all. Hell, until you came along, I hadn't heard him laugh in… in a long… long time."

Blaine took a quick breath, partially frightened and partially _so goddamn frustrated _at this secret that couldn't be uttered, this story that would never be told, but instead would resound within the walls of his head and heart, would vibrate and quiver right down to his core, would linger in the air, forever questioning, incomplete, unanswered…

_F sharp diminished seven. _

"Finn," Blaine said, sounding more irritated than he'd intended. "Finn," he repeated, gentler, "what is going on?"

"Blaine, I-"

Blaine knew that tone too well. "Finn," he pressed, "please. Should I be… should…" he bit his bottom lip, "Is there something I should know? About Kurt?"

Blaine's heart pounded in his chest, counting out the seconds of silence that passed as he waited for Finn to finally respond…

"Yes."

From the way he said it, Blaine knew that Finn was not going to be the one to tell him. Regardless, that 'yes' seemed to lift an extremely heavy weight off of his shoulders, only to replace it with a second weight, this one not quite as heavy, but still very much present.

"Yes…" Blaine repeated.

"Yeah… yeah, there is. But honestly, dude, I can't be the one to tell-"

"It's okay, Finn," Blaine sighed. "I know. I wouldn't ask you to. But… but can I just ask you one thing?"

Kindly, Finn answered, "Sure. Sure, what is it?"

Blaine took another steadying breath in the darkness of the living room, eyeing a few of the last dull, burning embers in the fireplace. "Should I ask him about it, or should I wait?"

Finn sighed. "You know… I've gotten pretty good at reading him over the past few years," he said, "and honestly, you can ask, but if you don't want to, I think it's safe to say he'll bring it up on his own very soon."

"Yeah?"

"Judging from the way he acted tonight when he got home? Yeah. See… things bother him, and he likes to keep them from other people because he doesn't want sympathy, and he doesn't want to put his problems on the people around him. But he can only do that for so long, and eventually you see him break, and when that happens…" Finn gave a small, affectionate laugh, and continued, "When that happens, it's never long before he comes into my bedroom at 1:00 AM, asking if I'm too busy to talk. There's a good bit of our high school experience for you."

Blaine smiled at the mental image, and he seemed to have forgotten in the last few minutes how good it felt to smile. "Okay. We'll… we'll see what happens. How is he, anyway? What was he like when he got home?"

"I heard him coming up the stairs outside of the restaurant," Finn explained, "and I knew something was wrong because he was running and because he was home so early. When you guys spend time together, it's not that short-lived," he added, with another small laugh. "Anyway, I left my apartment to see what was wrong, and… God, his face… he was crying, and… and he looked so… he went straight into his apartment, locked the door, and… I'm pretty sure he sat right there on the doormat, because when he had calmed down a little, we talked through the door… he wouldn't open it for me…"

Trying to picture the scene was painful.

"And he wouldn't tell me what happened, other than… um…" Finn paused for a moment, as if trying hard to remember the exact dialogue of their conversation, "He said… something about… he 'made a mistake,' he 'thought he could, but he couldn't,' but the thing that he kept telling me over and over again was that you didn't hurt him."

A single tear fell from Blaine's eye and rolled down his cheek, and he felt himself smiling just the subtlest, saddest smile.

"And from the rest of what he said, I could pretty much gather that you guys almost… well… yeah…"

Blaine didn't have the energy to feel embarrassed about what Finn had gathered, and he had a feeling Finn felt the same way; there were things far more important than that at hand.

"I feel awful," Blaine finally admitted with a cold laugh.

Finn's tone remained gentle and comforting, which Blaine was grateful for. "So does he, dude. But you're each upset with yourselves, not with each other. That's a good thing."

Considering this for a moment, Blaine had to agree; it was better than getting mad at each other. Much better. "I guess… yeah, yeah. That's true. Where is he now, Finn? Is he… okay?"

"He's okay. He eventually opened the door for Burt, his dad, you know. They didn't really talk though, sometimes he just… needs his dad to be there, to hold him for a while. He was in and out of sleep, but he finally passed out around 2:30, and we put him to bed. He's fine."

The sick feeling in Blaine's stomach had finally begun to melt away, and his heart slowed to a healthier rhythm. "Thank you, Finn. I just… needed to know he was safe. You have to believe me, if he hadn't told me not to follow him I never would have let him…"

"Blaine," Finn cut in, "it's okay. You did the right thing. Just… just trust me on this: If you had chased after him, it would have made the whole thing a whole lot worse. He has his problems, but he's still capable of taking care of himself."

Blaine nodded to himself. "Yeah… yeah, okay."

"You gonna be all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be all right. Thank you, Finn. Take care of him, okay?"

"Always. I'll see you Monday. Get some sleep."

"'Night, Finn."

Blaine snapped his phone shut and tossed it lightly onto the couch, then let himself slump a little lower, wrapping his arms around his legs and pulling them in, watching the last embers fade into blackness. He sat very still, and he barely thought. His mind and body were numb.

But his spirit wasn't an empty void like the newly darkened fire pit. Even in his state of numbness, Blaine could just feel the slightest hint of something deep down inside him that was far stronger than despair.

Hope.

* * *

Even as he held onto that hint of hope as tightly as he could, the weekend was still long and hard for Blaine. Wes was still away and, via text, had been hinting that he may be prolonging his stay. Cooper had flown back home and wouldn't return until April. Blaine didn't have the courage to call Kurt just yet.

Walking around the quiet, empty house reminded him of his high school years. By the time Blaine reached ninth grade, Cooper was already a junior in college and living on his own for the majority of the year. His mother and father worked late every day and Blaine hadn't exactly been a social butterfly, so those years had Blaine feeling as though he were the only person in the world. He'd come home from school every day, only his shadow for company. He'd learned early on to just accept it, but the memories stung.

On Sunday night, anxiety gripped him as it had before; fast and hard and unyielding. The prospect of seeing Kurt again after what had happened was frightening. He felt childish for admitting it to himself, but he was genuinely nervous about approaching him, or being approached. What would Kurt say to him? Would he say anything at all? Would he even look at him? Or would he simply ignore him, give a curt nod in his direction as a greeting and walk out on his own at the end of the night, abandoning their ritual of walking out together?

Without even realizing it, Blaine had taken a seat on his bed and pulled a pillow into his lap as the thoughts circled in his head, making him absent, and almost physically dizzy. When he came to, he glanced at his alarm clock.

10:42 PM.

He didn't want to sleep, because sleeping meant waking up, and waking up meant going to work in the morning, which meant going to rehearsal in the evening, which meant facing Kurt after all the emotional distress he'd caused him this weekend (unintentionally… _but still…_).

But there didn't seem to be much point in sitting up with the light on while unanswerable questions swam in and out of his head, so he sighed, turned out the lamp with a soft _click, _then climbed under his covers, allowing himself to be enveloped in their warmth and in the darkness.

The snowflakes drifting serenely toward the ground outside his window looked like falling glitter against the soft light of the streetlamps. It was a little hypnotic, really. No sound, just tiny, sparkling spots of white floating down, like little stars, from the black sky.

Suddenly, more than anything, Blaine just wanted to badly to _hold _something, some_one. _His body ached for some kind of safety, some warm embrace to take hold of him, so he could continue to be entranced by the falling snow but not feel so alone.

He reached over and pulled a pillow to his side of the bed, tucked it snug against his chest, and wrapped his arms around it, holding it as he would someone who wanted protection, like he did.

_There, _he thought, _almost. _

Because he didn't want to hold just anyone.

After nearly an hour, his mind drifted away, and he fell asleep.

* * *

Kurt wasn't there.

Blaine sat at the piano and fiddled with his music, waiting, watching as the others filtered in alone or in groups of two, three.

Five minutes till, and Kurt still hadn't arrived. The hustle and bustle his fellow musicians chatting in groups or tuning their instruments kept Blaine from noticing Finn approaching the stage. It wasn't until the tall percussionist had begun uncovering his instruments that Blaine had thought to ask him where Kurt was, or whether or not he was coming at all.

Before he could catch his attention, though, Will was at the podium.

Keeping a side eye on Will, Blaine waved over to Finn and gave a small _psst, _desperate to find out if there were any new developments, when something in Will's opening pep talk caught his ear:

"… so before we get to all that, it looks like it's time for a little competition."

Blaine's stomach lurched; he had almost completely forgotten about the competition, Kurt and Rachel's last battle for Soloist. It was today. _Kurt isn't here. He is going to miss his chance. No, no, he'd never… he would _never _miss this chance… _

Blaine glanced around and caught sight of Rachel, tossing her hair behind her shoulders and holding her head too high, as she often did. It would only be a matter of time, Blaine thought, until she realized with a gleeful smirk that she was about to win this fight by default, and it would be all because of Blaine…

Will glanced around the room, and finally began, hesitantly, "Has anyone seen…"

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Schuester."

Blaine knew, at the first syllable, that it was him. He turned to see Kurt walking briskly onto the stage, bundled into his winter clothes and red-nosed from the cold. He didn't look happy, he didn't look angry, and he didn't look sad or upset in any way. But truthfully, Blaine could not have cared less about reading his expression; he was too relieved, too overjoyed just to _see _him. He was there, alive, well, breathing, moving, talking… there he was.

"Ah, there you are, Kurt," Will said fondly as Kurt removed his coat and scarf, and took his place in the front row, "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't show up."

Rachel gave an audible scoff at this, but Kurt didn't seem to care. He simply smiled – a little cautiously – at Will, then unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll the sleeves of his charcoal grey button-down up to his elbows, as he always did before playing.

"Well, without any further ado, we'll get this started. Ladies first?" he offered. Kurt nodded first at Will, then at Rachel, who, without making eye contact with either of the men, stood up tall (as tall as she could, anyway) and straight, walked to the single chair Will had set front and center, and took her seat.

Will stepped off to the side and occupied one of the extra chairs, crossing his legs and propping a clipboard and pen up on his lap as he waited for Rachel to begin.

She brandished her violin more like a weapon than like an instrument, Blaine thought with some amusement. But in another moment, she had hit her first note, and Blaine's stomach lurched a second time during that day's rehearsal.

It was perfect, and he didn't need to hear the rest of the song to know that. None of them did. It was Bach – _Well, she'll lose some points on creativity _– but it wasn't a particularly overplayed piece, and he had to give her credit for that. Blaine recognized it immediately, though, since obscure Bach was like a hobby to him. "Sarabande in D Minor," if he wasn't mistaken.

Blaine never once tuned out of the performance. In his mind he scrutinized her every note, searching for some criticism to make. When he couldn't find one – not a single one – he looked at Kurt. He tried to read his expression, tried to figure out if he was nervous (he didn't look nervous), still upset (he didn't look happy, but neither did he look upset), confident (no trace of confidence)… was he even the same person anymore?

The horrifying notion that perhaps Blaine had caused Kurt so much pain that he was now incapable of feeling any kind of emotion at all suddenly gripped him, but it was only a few seconds before he realized how childish that notion was. Still, though, he found himself wondering how Kurt remained so calm and even stoic as Rachel poured out note after note after immaculate note.

Rachel's painfully perfect two-and-a-half-minute adaptation finally came to a close, and the chamber broke into a polite – but not overzealous – round of applause. Kurt applauded as well, Blaine noted.

Rachel beamed out at her audience, and Blaine was almost certain that as she closed her eyes and bowed deeply, she was imagining standing center stage at the Spring Concert in all her glory, being applauded by the thousands of occupants that would be filling the hall…

He didn't hold that against her. Every musician dreamed of things like that. It was her pride, her attitude, her abrasiveness that he hated. Blaine had no idea how this competition was going to turn out, but the one thing he did know was that if Kurt played his _very best_ and Rachel Berry was still crowned the winner, it would be proof that karma did not exist.

"Thank you, Rachel," Will said, smiling. "Thank you so much. Kurt?"

Rachel nodded at Will, then walked swiftly back to her seat as Kurt stood up from his.

Blaine didn't know what it was, didn't know why he felt this way, but for some reason as he watched Kurt approach center stage with his violin case in hand, he felt like he was watching a different human being. Some sort of energy that normally radiated from his body with his every move was missing, and it had been replaced by a kind of mysterious poignancy. It almost felt as if every move he made was causing him physical pain; he was just doing a very good job of hiding it.

Blaine had no way to confirm this, though. It could have been all in his mind.

He was about to resign himself to that conclusion, when something stopped him.

Kurt had taken a seat on the center chair and placed his violin case on the floor. He leaned down to unclasp its buckles, and the violin he pulled out of the case was not his violin.

At least, it wasn't a violin Blaine had ever seen Kurt use.

It was old. The wood which had once been dark and polished was now faded and chipped and scratched all over its surface. The strings, while pulled on properly and obviously tightened, were frayed, aged, and shot out in spikes and tangles at the ends. The bow's condition was no better; the wood was faded, the strip discolored. The entire instrument, broken.

Kurt moved like a ghost, bringing the old, grotesque thing to his neck in a slow, fluid motion, before suddenly he played the first raw, quivering, gut-wrenching note with not just his arms, but, it seemed, his entire being.

Instantly, Blaine knew the artist. He knew the key. He knew the song.

And the horrid, misshapen, but somehow beautiful melody told Blaine exactly what Kurt had felt that night, and what he had been feeling since.

He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, but he knew: Kurt was broken.

Kurt would tell him the how and why. Eventually. But for now, they weren't so important.

There was only Kurt. Just Kurt.


	10. Chapter 10

You guys nearly made me cry with your reviews for the last chapter. I don't care how repetitive I sound, I will continue to say it: Thank you so much for sticking with this, from the bottom of my heart.

**Warning**: This chapter contains heavy triggers. Rated M for mentions of various types of harassment (violent, physical, emotional, and sexual)

The Soloist – Chapter X

_The Vitamin String Quartet: "Hallelujah"_

His movements were smooth, yet his music was coarse. His arms were steady and his fingers precise, yet his melody quivered in the air. The song itself was as gritty and battered and torn as the violin on which it was being played.

No one moved. No one spoke. Blaine doubted anyone even took a breath until all were sure the song had come to an end. To have done so, Blaine felt, would have been wrong. It would have been irreverent.

When the final note finally melted into silence, the room remained still. In front of the motionless, soundless chamber, Kurt didn't even look up from his instrument upon finishing. He slowly stood and swept into a bow, keeping his eyes down, then encased his violin, and moved back to his seat.

Blaine hadn't even noticed the wary applause that had broken out among the other musicians at some point between Kurt's bow and his retaking his seat.

He, like so many of the others, was numb.

* * *

When the chamber was dismissed, Blaine wasn't quick enough to catch Kurt disappearing backstage or elsewhere in the sea of exhausted musicians. For a moment, he panicked, thinking Kurt had left without speaking to him, or even acknowledging him, at the very least. In a moment of startling familiarity, though, he realized as the crowd dissipated that Kurt's music, coat, and instrument all remained at his seat.

Just as they had the night he and Blaine first met, all those months ago.

Blaine nodded or waved to his other friends as they departed, catching a knowing glance from Finn that was just dutiful enough to make him slightly more nervous than he already was.

He could only wait.

As the last seven, six, five musicians slowly packed up, Blaine put his fingers to the keys, and played softly. It was the only way to keep himself calm.

Under his breath, he murmured the lyrics.

"… _but it flew away, mmmm… so she ran away, hmmm… dreamed of…" _

_D… minor… B flat… F… F, C… B flat, A… A, G… B flat, D, C… _

"… _life goes on, it gets so heavy… mmmm… breaks the butterfly… every tear, a waterfall… in the night, the stormy night, she closed her eyes…" _

"I love that song."

The B flat held, rang, and faded beneath Blaine's motionless hands.

Slowly, he lifted them from the keys, and brought them to his lap, then relieved the pedal. He kept his eyes on the keyboard and said, simply, "Me too."

A few seconds of silence passed, Blaine resigning himself to the fact that someone needed to make the first move.

He pushed the bench back and stood, stepped out from his spot at the piano, took a deep breath, and turned to start the conversation they both knew they had to have. "Kurt, I…"

In the blink of an eye, Blaine stumbled back against the piano as Kurt threw his arms around him and hugged him tighter than he had ever been hugged in his life. He felt Kurt press his face into his neck, felt as he breathed deeply while pressed against him. And Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt's back, holding firmly to his sides, breathed him in, and felt as though he could have cried.

Finally, Blaine felt Kurt pulling away. And while he didn't ever want to let him go, a part of him thrilled at the thought of once again being able to gaze into his kind, beautiful eyes without fear of seeing him hurt, or upset, or, heaven forbid, unforgiving.

And they stopped Blaine in his tracks, Kurt's eyes did. His hands remained lightly holding Kurt's waist, but his breath hitched in his chest, and he could only stare as Kurt stared back at him, apologetic and desperate to be understood but so very fulfilled to be here, with Blaine, wrapped in his loving arms once again.

Blaine was almost unable to find his voice.

"Oh… oh, Kurt…"

"Blaine…" Kurt shook his head a little, rested his hands on Blaine's shoulders, and began, quiet but steady, "I am so sorry for what I did to you. And please don't tell me not to apologize," he added in a whisper, with a kind little laugh that made Blaine laugh as well, and made the lump in his throat bigger and brought the tears behind his eyes a little closer to falling.

"Regardless of… of whether or not I had a good reason to do what I did," Kurt said, his voice low and his face sincere, "I know it must have hurt you. And that's what I'm apologizing for, Blaine. I'm sorry that I hurt you. And I…" suddenly, his voice shook, and his eyes became sad and full of regret. He took a breath, and whispered, "And I never, ever… _ever… _want to hurt you, Blaine. Never."

"Kurt, I… I know," Blaine said softly, rubbing his thumbs gently over Kurt's sides and looking straight into his shining eyes. "It's all right," he assured him, when apology swam again through his icy blue eyes, "I know… I know."

For one blissful moment, Kurt looked completely at peace. He was staring into Blaine's eyes, lost in them, and Blaine had never seen him look so… so as if everything was really going to be all right. It was only a moment, though. When it passed, that anxiety Blaine wished Kurt would never have to feel again came back into his eyes. As it did, Blaine felt Kurt pull their bodies closer and tighten his hold on Blaine's shoulders.

His eyes wandered a bit, and he murmured, "It's just… Blaine," their eyes met again, "there are things about me, things that I try to… to erase, to forget… but can't… that I've kept from you. And…"

Blaine could feel his heart picking up speed, and as Kurt swallowed and stammered to continue, he was fairly certain the feeling was mutual.

"… And… that I… that I don't know if I can tell you right this second but that I, I, I don't think I can hold inside me much longer…"

When Kurt's breathing began to hitch and his voice nearly cracked, Blaine brought his hands to Kurt's cheeks and pulled him close, whispering, "Hey… hey…"

"I'm so sorry…"

"Don't apologize…"

"I'm… sorry…"

Somehow, Kurt choked out a laugh, and Blaine laughed too, and pulled him in for another embrace.

Against the warmth of Kurt's neck, Blaine murmured softly, "How about we just… walk… for a while?"

He waited, leaning into Kurt with his eyes closed, until Kurt's slightly muffled voice responded, "I'd… I'd like that, Blaine. Very much."

* * *

Blaine and Kurt stepped out into the cold, wintery, yet bustling city night. They did not speak, but their hands were clasped tightly and Blaine could feel Kurt keeping close to him for warmth.

The silence between them stretched until the Palladium was far behind them and they were approaching the intersection of 58th and Broadway.

"That song…" Blaine suddenly said, "… that was Hans Zimmer, wasn't it?"

They turned to look at each other as they stepped off of the sidewalk to cross the street, curiously few other pedestrians around them. Kurt's face was as white as the snow piled high on the ground, almost aglow beneath the streetlights.

"Mmhm," he murmured, a small smile appearing on his lips. It faded quickly, though. "I kind of… understand it. Not sure if that makes any sense…"

"It makes perfect sense," Blaine interrupted. "I don't know how, really," he offered, when Kurt raised an eyebrow, "but it does. It did, when you were playing it. It's almost like it was written for-"

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear wha…"

Grasping Blaine's hand tightly, Kurt stopped at the edge of Columbus Circle. Blaine gazed at him questioningly until he realized why Kurt was smilingly hopefully once again.

Just a few yards away, the applause of a small crowd of people was dying down as music began to fill the air.

A string quartet of three men and one young woman played just beside the center structure, despite the sparse audience and, apparently, the cold. They played beautifully.

"Do you want to listen?" Blaine asked.

Unable to hide his happiness, Kurt bit his bottom lip and nodded, and Blaine laughed and pulled him closer.

They stood together behind an old man and woman – a couple – who held hands and swayed slightly, like they were waltzing together somewhere far, far away.

"I wish I could do that," Kurt said.

Blaine, who'd been so fixated on the lovely, heartwarming scene before him, turned to Kurt a little dazed. "W… what?"

"I wish I could do that," Kurt repeated, gesturing with his head towards – Blaine eventually realized – not the couple before them, but the musicians. "Play outside, for different people. Not just experts who come to the Palladium to hear Will's latest masterworks, and not just my family, but… other people… real people."

"You could, you know," Blaine said.

Kurt turned to him. "I suppose I could," he mused, "but I'm… I don't know. Comfortable here, I guess," he settled for. But Blaine could tell that 'comfortable' hadn't been the word he was searching for.

"Just because somewhere or, or something isn't _bad_… doesn't necessarily mean you should settle for it," Blaine said, watching as the musicians dropped the first verse into a soft, purposeful transition, playing a song he was beginning to recognize…

Kurt's voice was barely a whisper. "Yeah," he said, his breath a cloud of icy air.

Almost as if pulled by some kind of magnetic force, Blaine hooked his hand around Kurt's elbow, leaned in close, and laid his head gently on Kurt's shoulder. He felt a smile play on his lips when he realized how perfectly he fit there, and he was fairly certain he felt Kurt shake with endeared laughter, when suddenly, the lyrics escaped him:

"_There's a blaze of light in every word… it doesn't matter which you heard… the holy or the broken Hallelujah…" _

Blaine felt a sudden warmth rush through his veins when he realized that Kurt had begun to lean his own head down against Blaine's. He stopped murmuring the lyrics under his breath, and was perfectly content to just listen, and breathe.

Blaine fidgeted a bit when he felt a tickle on his cheek, and soon opened his eyes to see a dusting of snow drifting down from the hazy, almost purple night sky.

"Hey, it's snow… Kurt?"

Blaine lifted his head from Kurt's shoulder, and glanced up just in time to see a single tear fall from one of his watery blue eyes.

With one side of his head still tingling from where Kurt's had rested upon it, Blaine placed his gloved hands gently on Kurt's shoulders and asked, quietly, "Kurt, what's… what's wrong?"

"I just…" miserably, he laughed in spite of himself and glanced hopelessly up to the sky then down to the ground, eyes reflecting lamplight from every direction as he did. "I can't do this anymore," he whispered, finally.

Blaine's heart dropped momentarily and he stammered, "You mean… me? Kurt, do you… you mean you don't… want this…?"

"No, no, no," Kurt shook his head vehemently, still speaking just so that Blaine could hear, "That's not it, not at all. I mean I can't… I can't keep this from you, Blaine." He swallowed hard, and more tears rolled down his cheeks. Blaine's heart sank deep into his stomach. "Not for another minute. Because… because you're so good to me," he said, "right down to the way you look at me when I say things, and how close you stand, and the sweet, kind way you touch me like it's no big deal… I can't… I can't keep this a secret anymore. I can't."

Blaine could feel his heartbeat in his very temples. He held Kurt there, not knowing what to say, until, finally…

"Come home with me?"

Kurt wiped his eyes on the backs of his gloves, and nodded.

"Okay."

* * *

Blaine brought Kurt into the house, switching on the living room light when they entered. They took a few minutes to remove their coats, scarves, boots, gloves, and to shake the snow out of each other's hair.

When Kurt was finally free of his many layers, down to only his soft, long-sleeved v-neck, his socks, and his dark jeans, Blaine placed a hand comfortingly on his back and steered him toward the stairs.

"Go on up," he said, "My bedroom's the door on the left. Try to relax for a bit, and I'll bring you something, okay?"

Kurt nodded, silently mouthing a "Thank you," before giving Blaine his best effort at a smile, then ascending the stairs, going into Blaine's room, turning on the light, and disappearing from sight.

When Kurt had first said that there was something he needed to tell Blaine, Blaine's heart had begun to race. Because, this was it. Kurt was about trust Blaine fully, completely, and let him in. And he felt that the feeling would continue, all the way until the conversation began, but… surprisingly, it had been replaced by a strange calm. Blaine found that, as he entered the kitchen and began fixing a pot of coffee, he was less concerned with the anticipation of it all, and far more concerned with Kurt himself, and what this was going to be like for _him_. And that, if anything, was surely what had caused Blaine's initial excitement to dissipate, making way for this new feeling of having to be safeguarding, protective, compassionate.

When the coffee was done, Blaine poured two mugs and added creamer and sugar to both. Holding one in each hand, he left the kitchen, made his way upstairs, and went into his bedroom.

And there was Kurt, curled up above the covers on Blaine's mattress, but not on the side Blaine generally occupied; on the side that, when Blaine slept, remained empty. Almost as if he knew.

There was something about the way he had closed in on himself… the way he was wrapped up in his own arms, the way half of his troubled countenance was hidden in one of Blaine's soft pillows, the way his sock-clad feet rubbed against one another nervously… that made him look so very _young. _And yes, he was only twenty-one, still a kid, for all intents and purposes, but even more so now.

Blaine made his way over to the nightstand on Kurt's side and set down the mug. "It's decaf," he murmured, and he could have sworn he caught just the slightest hint of a smile.

He then walked around the bed, took a sip of his own mug before setting it down on the other nightstand, and then climbed onto his spot. And he was just beginning to think that he would have to come up with some way of gently coaxing Kurt to come out of his little burrow and trust Blaine, and talk to him, when Kurt, slowly, deliberately, hoisted himself into a sitting position, then turned to face Blaine on the bed, crossing his legs into a pretzel.

He kept his eyes down, fixed on his hands which were resting, folded, in his lap.

"Blaine, I…" he began. He took a few moments to himself, just to breathe, then finally looked up from his lap and into Blaine's eyes. "This is going to be… um… hard. So I just want to say I'm sorry right now if… if I have trouble, or I stop…"

"Kurt, don't apologize. You don't have to, ever, but especially not now," Blaine said, as sincerely as he possibly could. "This isn't about me, Kurt. This is about you. I'm here right now… for _you. _Okay?"

Tears threatened to fall again, but somehow, Kurt managed to hold them back as he nodded gratefully to Blaine. Finally, he gave Blaine a quiet, shaky, "Okay," in response.

Blaine nodded, letting him know, it was okay to start.

"I guess I'll… start at the, um, beginning." He took a heavy sigh, and began.

"I was teased a lot, in high school. Freshman year was… hell. But, the funny thing is, I wasn't teased for being gay. I was teased because I was… small, quiet, studious_,_" he laughed, dryly, "But not for being gay… until… until my sophomore year. I was… outed," he breathed. "Some kids… found a note, that I had written… like a fucking _idiot,_" he winced, "to this boy in my grade who I… liked. I had never intended to actually give it to him," Kurt explained, "Just… um… I was just…"

"Pretending," Blaine whispered.

Kurt nodded, sadly. But something in his eyes told Blaine that Kurt knew Blaine understood _exactly _what he had been doing, and that Blaine had done that same thing, many times. Made up fantasies in his head, of the perfect life with the perfect boy.

"Anyway," he sniffled, "the bullying just got worse. It was… was more… targeted. Planned. Organized, in a way. It became more emotional, more physical, more everything… and then there… there were… these… these, um…"

Kurt's breathing quickened, his gaze dropped, his eyes began to water, and Blaine just hated seeing him like this so much he could barely stand it, but was suddenly strengthened by the thought that whatever he was feeling, Kurt was getting the same thing, tenfold. And Kurt needed him to be the strong one.

"It's okay, it's okay… Kurt, it's okay…" Blaine took Kurt's cheeks in his hands and held up his head. "Kurt, do you need to stop?"

Kurt mumbled incoherently, trying to form an answer, but instead, resorted to shaking his head 'no,' taking Blaine's hands and pulling them down to his lap, where he clasped them in his own. He breathed hard, until it had slowed, and he shook his head again. "No," he said, softly, "No, no, I… I have to. I have to do this."

Blaine held Kurt's hands tightly, and told him with his eyes, he would listen as long as Kurt wanted him to.

"There were these guys," he said, quickly, as if trying to spit it all out before he could stumble again. "They were… um… they were in, in my grade. And from… from, from like… the middle of my sophomore year to my senior year… they would… do these things like, no one else did. Like, everyone was mean. It was just… that was just a thing, everyone was mean. But, but there were these guys that would try to… like… um… provoke me."

As gently as he could, Blaine asked, "Provoke you… how, exactly?"

"They, um…" Kurt sniffled again, and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, "They would say things to me that were… were so… they would ask me things that were… um… like… _intimate. _And… I guess, graphic, in a way."

Blaine looked at him curiously, and he went on to attempt to explain, "Like, um… weird… scenarios. Like, like, "Kurt, if I… did so-and-so to you… how would you feel?" or, "Kurt, if I were to…" his breath hitched again, but he pressed on, "… touch you… somewhere… would you enjoy it?" or, "Kurt, would it… would it… 'turn you on…' if I… did so-and-so to myself?" I mean, you… you get the picture…"

At that point, anxiety began to creep back into Blaine. Horrifying, terrifying thoughts nagged at the back of his mind but he pushed them back, back, back… because he didn't want them to be true, but at the same time, he had this sick, sick feeling that he knew what kind of story this was…

"But I was so afraid of them," Kurt said, with a sound that was almost a whimper, so small and desperate Blaine almost lost himself again. "I was so… just… really, really scared that if… if I tried to get help or asked them to stop or told someone about it that… that something terrible would happen, so I just tried to… to ignore them. I tried so hard, I just didn't talk, and I didn't do anything, but it kept happening and… and eventually… senior year… um… I, I, they, I…"

"Kurt, just stop for a minute, okay?"

"No, no I… Blaine… I have to…"

"Blaine… I… One day, I stayed at school late, and I went down to the locker rooms to look for my phone," he continued, in a strangely coherent yet definitely forced voice. He was determined. Blaine could hear it, and he could see it. Once again, they were eye-to-eye.

"I thought I was alone, but I heard the door, and five of them were there. Probably after practice, but the coach and everyone else was gone. It was just me, and, and then… they started it again. Saying those kinds of things, getting too close, and I tried to get away, tried to just leave, and… and that's when one of them grabbed me."

_No. _"Kurt…"

"He held me back. I couldn't leave." He swallowed hard. His throat was dry, and so was Blaine's. "And they kept saying those… those things. Those horrible… horrible things… and I tried to get away, believe me, I, I… I tried so hard…"

_God, no. No. _"Oh… oh, Kurt…"

"But it was only a matter of time before saying… turned to doing."

_No. No, no, no..._

Kurt's eyes were dark and watery, and his voice was low. He didn't look like Kurt. He was almost frightening to look at.

"It wasn't aggressive at first," he said. Slowly, he was starting to cry. "At first, it was… frighteningly gentle… teasing… but then, then the things they started to say became… harsh. And then, the way they started to… to touch me, that got harsh too. And there… there was nothing I could do, I fought, but… but… the more I fought, the more… aggressive they became, and… and…"

Blaine's stomach churned. His throat closed up. His hands were clammy. He felt like he was going to vomit. He was sure he looked it too.

"And then I screamed. And they…" his voice broke, and so did his face. He closed in on himself, his mask gone, and cried, "They held me down… four of them… threat… threatened to s-s-strangle me if I… if I screamed… and the one… the one who was always the worst, he… he… he…"

Blaine felt himself choke up a sob. He could barely see Kurt, his eyes were so filled with tears. And he hated himself for crying, because it wasn't helping. He wasn't able to help, wasn't able to change it, and there was nothing he could do about that.

"I don't know how long they held me there, while he… while he…"

"Kurt…"

"I don't know, because I can't remember anything but… but the… humiliation… the terror… the… helplessness, and… and the… the _pain_…"

Blaine wanted to let his face fall into his hands. He wanted to press his palms to his eyes and cry, and never stop. But he couldn't. All he could do was stare through a cloud of tears at Kurt, who looked like he had absolutely no reason to go on, nothing left to live for.

Blaine was watching him, and his heart was breaking.

"Kurt… is that why… when I…. when I touched you…"

"Yes." Somberly, Kurt nodded. "Up until that day back in high school, I had never… I hadn't…" Kurt's face began to redden, and Blaine simply nodded, indicating that yes, he understood. _He was a virgin when they did it to him. Probably never even had a boyfriend. Probably hadn't even been kissed… God… God, why…_

"And after that… and after the recovery… I…" he took a moment to breathe, to wipe his eyes… "I told myself, 'Never again.' I never wanted it again. Never wanted… sex. Any kind. With anyone. Ever. I did not want it. Until… until I met you."

Blaine's heart skipped a beat.

"Blaine, you…" Blaine could see that it was taking everything Kurt had to keep his composure, but still, he pressed on, "… you were the first person that when I… when I thought about… when I thought about loving you, it wasn't frightening. It wasn't scary. It was… it was a good thought. Something I didn't want to back away and hide from.

"And that night at your house, I wanted… _so badly… _to do more than kiss. I didn't want to… to do anything drastic," he said, "but that touch was wanted, Blaine. You have to know that. I wanted that touch. But then… then when it happened… all I could see was _him… _and that… that horrible, horrible smile… and I could feel them holding me down and I couldn't… I couldn't do it…"

"Kurt," Blaine managed, even with the painful lump in his throat threatening to steal his voice away any second, "I am… so… so… sorry."

Even on his blotched, flushed, tear-streaked face, Kurt's smile was breathtaking. "I know you are, Blaine. I know."

Normally, Blaine felt as though he wouldn't have wanted to ask. After what Kurt had just done, though – laid himself bare, trusted Blaine completely – he knew it would be okay. "Kurt… why didn't you tell me? That night, why didn't you tell me?"

Suddenly, Blaine could see in Kurt's eyes that there was more to this story.

"I… I couldn't, Blaine."

"But…" as gently as he could… "I just really, really hope you know how much I care about you, and that I would never, never have… have hurt you. You could have – you can – trust me. You know that, right?"

Kurt nodded quickly. "I do, I do… but I… Oh God, I just…"

"Oh Kurt, it's okay, you don't have to tell me…"

"No, no, I…" he took another deep, steadying breath. "I pushed you away. And when I did… when I backed away from you, and started crying… it was because… it… was… it was…"

_No, God, please… _

No prayer could stop it – Kurt's face fell, and he cried.

Blaine reached out, both afraid and compelled to comfort him at the same time. His hand found one of Kurt's, and Kurt flinched, but didn't pull away. "It was because of what… Kurt?"

Through his crying, he murmured a sentence Blaine could not make out.

"… what, Kurt?"

"It was because…." Unintelligible.

Blaine leaned in, grasping Kurt's hand a little tighter. "You can tell me, Kurt… why did you start crying after you pushed me away?"

So quiet, Blaine could just make out…

"_Because I knew if I told you, you wouldn't want me anymore."_

* * *

To be continued. Love you all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning**: This chapter contains heavy triggers. Rated M for mentions of various types of harassment (violent, physical, emotional, and sexual)

The Soloist – Chapter XI

_Death Cab For Cutie: "Stable Song"_

"No one… no one could ever want me, Blaine. Especially not someone as... gifted and… and kind and… and _beautiful_… as you."

Blaine wanted words to pour out of his mouth. He wanted to stumble over sentence after sentence about how Kurt could not be more wrong, about how he was the most fascinating, intelligent, talented, incredible, beautiful man to ever find his way into Blaine's life, about how imagining a life without him made Blaine sick to his stomach, about how so very _empty _he feels just thinking about Kurt not being here, with him, next to him, _always… _

"Kurt… no. No. Never. I could never… _ever… not _want you…"

"You say that now," Kurt said with a hard swallow, "But give it time, and you'll realize, Blaine. You won't be able to care about me…"

"Kurt, how can you say…"

"I'm _damaged_, Blaine!" he suddenly shouted, lifting his icy, watery gaze and staring straight into Blaine's eyes. "I'll never be worth anyone's affection because I can't return it without going back to that day! I'm, I'm dirty, _defective…" _

"No…"

"_Infected…" _

"Kurt…"

His head dropped into his hands and his knuckles turned white as he clutched handfuls of hair, desperately needing some sort of release as he finished through tears and gritted teeth, _"Contaminated." _

Blaine listened to his harsh, quick breathing for a moment, afraid to speak, until he couldn't be silent any longer.

"Kurt… I listened to you, and now… I need you to listen to me."

Kurt looked up and off to the side, clearly upset and about to interrupt, but Blaine continued nonetheless.

"Kurt, those guys… those ruthless, disgusting, evil… _creatures… _have nothing to do with you. And you have nothing to do with them. They tried so hard…"

"God Blaine, don't try to…."

"They tried so hard to destroy you, Kurt," Blaine interjected, a little forcefully, but he could tell Kurt wouldn't be able to tune him out much longer, "and all because you were living with a kind of courage they would never, ever have."

Kurt wiped away more tears and groaned, "That's not what it…"

_No. You're going to listen. _"But they didn't succeed, Kurt. They didn't even come close, and I know this. I _know this, Kurt, _because in these past few months you have shown me things I've never seen before."

Kurt was biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep it from quivering, but slowly, his glassy eyes were being drawn from the right wall, back to Blaine. He was hearing. Whether he wanted it or not, Blaine was getting through to him.

"You've reminded me of things – _important _things – that I forgot I cared about. You made me remember what _used _to be good, and… and still can be, if I let it."

Kurt's eyes were locked on Blaine's, and he was trying harder than ever not to cry. And then, all of a sudden, so was Blaine.

"And you… you…" Blaine took a deep breath, not taking his eyes off of Kurt's… "You taught me… things… extraordinary things… about…" he swallowed, and finally, his voice broke, "about life, and how it can be lived, and how… how it… how it can be… cherished…"

Eyes never leaving Blaine's, Kurt began to shake his head _no, no, _but he wasn't fooling anyone, not even himself. If he had been, he wouldn't have been looking Blaine in the eye, telling him silently that he knew Blaine could not and was not lying to him; that every word Blaine was saying was true. Kurt let the tears fall, and at that moment, so did Blaine.

He reached out and took Kurt's hands, this time knowing Kurt would let him.

"And… and you… you feel like you're damaged… contaminated… and maybe your body was, for a while… but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, Kurt, because virginity… and purity… aren't just physical." He shook his head back and forth several times. "They're not, Kurt. They're not. They're so much… so much more than that… so much more… than that…"

Blaine withdrew one hand from Kurt's grasp and lifted it, pressing it gently against the warmth of Kurt's heart. Somehow, he managed to smile. And somehow, Kurt managed to smile back.

Suddenly, before Blaine had even seen Kurt move, the two were embracing as if it was the last chance of holding each other they'd ever have. Blaine held him tightly, and after a few moments he began to feel Kurt shaking, and his breath hitching…

And when he finally felt the tears rolling down Kurt's cheeks and onto the exposed skin at his collar, he held Kurt even tighter, rubbing his back and running his fingers through his hair, trying hard not to break down himself as he whispered, over and over again, letting Kurt know that he was there, that he wasn't going to leave, that everything would be all right...

If anything, it only made Kurt cry harder. It was hard for Blaine to feel that, and to hear it, but at the same time he knew it wasn't out of heartbreak. The way Kurt simply let go, the way he clung to Blaine everywhere he could and let the wave of emotions flow from him without inhibition, right before Blaine's eyes, nonetheless… told Blaine that Kurt was more relieved than he could say aloud.

Holding Kurt there, Blaine could almost feel the absence of the weight, the torturously heavy burden he'd been carrying around for years on his shoulders. It had finally been lifted, and the lightness, the liberation, and the relief were all too much for Kurt to take in. Too much for a man who'd been beaten down, weak and helpless and innocent, to the very pit of hell; too much for a man who survived the horrors of every nightmare he and others like him had ever had, and yet, in the end, it took this – comfort, kindness – to strip him down and expose the deepest, purist core of his being.

One act of wickedness, and Kurt closed himself off, pushed every evildoer away.

One act of compassion, and Kurt handed himself – heart and soul – to the one he trusted, the one who cared.

He was giving off no signal that he would be letting go of Blaine anytime soon, and Blaine was just fine with that. With Kurt there in his arms, he felt warm and full and complete, and knowing Kurt felt the same – even in his emotionally vulnerable state – sparked a glowing warmth inside of him.

Without loosening his embrace, Blaine eased himself and the boy in his arms down into the soft, inviting pillows. Once they had settled down, facing each other, Kurt tucked his hands against the warmth of Blaine's chest and his head beneath Blaine's chin. He sighed, and though he sounded tired and a little pained, he also sounded like he was finally, finally able to rest.

Blaine pressed a soft kiss into Kurt's hair and tucked his own head against Kurt's, suddenly feeling as though he, too, could rest, and maybe even sleep, if they stayed here, like this, long enough. And once he let his eyelids lower, he knew it'd be hard to open them back up.

"… Blaine?"

Blaine was surprised to hear Kurt's voice, however small and timid he sounded down beneath his chin.

"Yes, Kurt?"

"Would it be all right if I just… just laid here… tonight… with you?"

"You mean… you mean sleep here?"

Suddenly, he was anxious again. "I mean, if not… it's okay, I didn't mean to…"

"Of course you can, Kurt. I… I was afraid to ask myself, but… but I would love it if you stayed. You can always stay."

For a moment, Blaine was afraid that was too forward of a thing to say – _always. _But the way Kurt's back bubbled with silent, contented laughter and the way Kurt's lips curved into a smile where they pressed against his collarbone assured him that whatever he had said, Kurt was fine with always.

"Kurt, is it all right if I… if I, um, turn off the light?"

"Mmhm… mmhm."

Blaine tightened his embrace just for a moment, the whispered, "Okay," and reached over to his bedside table and switched off the light.

In the dark bedroom, Blaine listened to Kurt's breathing and felt his body move with his breath in his arms, and he without being able to help it, he thought back about everything Kurt had just told him. And the more he thought about everything – the action itself as well as the people behind it – the more he became physically and emotionally aware of the boy in his arms. He held him almost as if he were made of something breakable, like porcelain or glass. The thought of willingly causing him harm, of knowingly inflicting pain upon him… he couldn't even process the idea. It entered his mind and then his mind spit it back out. And he couldn't understand how anyone – _anyone _– could do such a thing to anyone else, but, particularly not Kurt. Kurt, who was as quiet, as kind, and as non-confrontational as they come…

Blaine's brain began to hurt, and his eyelids began to fall, and finally he pushed all of these thoughts far into the back of his mind and once again focused on Kurt's breathing and on the shadows enveloping them.

With his eyes closed, just as he was drifting off to sleep, Blaine wondered vaguely about what the morning would bring. The night offered them rest, but things were far from resolved. This memory that haunted Kurt so mercilessly since the day of its inception was not about to vanish into thin air. No – it was still something that happened to him, something very real and not in the least forgiving. How they would move forward from this, how they would fight it… was all still a mystery.

But if there was one thing Blaine knew, even as sleep began to take him, it was that Kurt would not be fighting this fight alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Warning**: This chapter contains heavy triggers. Rated M for mentions of various types of harassment (violent, physical, emotional, and sexual)

The Soloist – Chapter XII

_Billy Joel: "Vienna"_

Just the night before, Blaine had been lying in that same spot, clutching a pillow to his chest, wishing more than anything in the world that it would turn into the person he now had cradled in his arms. And from the moment they laid down together until the minute the daylight crept through the wooden blinds and streamed in delicate patches onto the bed, the reality awed Blaine, moved him, and at times made him certain he was dreaming.

He hadn't slept particularly soundly – partly because he had quite a bit on his mind, and partly because yes, the only boy who had ever meant the world to him was burrowed in his warm embrace – but when the soft light touched his eyelids, he felt he had had just enough.

Blaine opened his eyes, and sure enough, there was Kurt, still so very close, and holding onto him even in sleep. They were a mess of arms and legs and stiff jeans and rumpled blankets, but somehow, Blaine knew that at that moment, there was nowhere he'd rather have been.

Without waking Kurt, Blaine extracted himself from the bed and replaced his body with a soft white pillow, one that Kurt immediately took hold of and embraced as though it were still Blaine, making Blaine smile and laugh quietly.

He quickly retrieved a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved sleep-shirt and escaped to the bathroom, where he sighed in relief after removing the shirt and jeans that had made his body feel uncomfortably restricted over the course of the night. He changed, brushed his teeth and quickly washed his face with lukewarm water, and stepped back into the bedroom.

The sight before him made him stop in the doorway, and ever so quietly, gasp.

Beneath the dull glow of the daylight that spread in soft lines across the bed, Kurt was just beginning to stir. Sprawled on his back, he began to stretch. Something in the way he moved had made Blaine stop – something about the way the light touched his white skin and his messy brown hair, something about how purposeful each motion was, how he groaned almost inaudibly at the extension of each arm, how his eyes were screwed shut in exertion but he somehow still looked so peaceful.

When he opened his sleepy blue eyes, Kurt glanced around slowly for a moment before finding Blaine in the doorway. For just an instant, Blaine wondered what he would do, how he would react. Would he remember going to sleep here? Would he remember asking to sleep here? Would he have changed his mind about trusting Blaine?

And then, Blaine looked at him. And he was smiling. A sleepy, semiconscious, adorable, true and honest smile.

"Hi," he said, his voice low and raspy from sleep, but lovely to Blaine nonetheless.

Blaine took a breath, then smiled, "Hi."

And Blaine wanted to hold him.

* * *

And he did. Almost as soon as they had exchanged good mornings, Blaine had hopped back onto the bed and opened his arms wide, making Kurt laugh, push himself up into a sitting position, and return the embrace. Quietly he thanked Blaine for letting him stay, and Blaine waved away the thank you, telling him, "Anytime… anytime."

After checking with Kurt, Blaine stretched freely and sighed with contentment when he realized that the morning was theirs – no work, no commitments, no chamber, at least until evening. It was only them.

Worry that Kurt might not want to stay quickly dissipated when Kurt yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes, and slowly lowered himself back into the blankets, smiling knowingly up at Blaine.

"Yeah?" Blaine asked with a chuckle.

Kurt just nodded, then grasped at the air repetitively, signaling to Blaine to join him.

* * *

After insisting that if this was going to be the snuggling session Blaine hoped it would be, Blaine decided that Kurt was going to need comfortable clothing. He offered Kurt an old sleep shirt and soft pair of flannels (Wes's, of course. Blaine's would barely have made it to Kurt's ankles) and lastly, a toothbrush.

Kurt retreated to the bathroom and Blaine pushed pillows and blankets around the mattress, trying to make sense of the madness, until he finally created something of a nest out of the many linens. Deciding that yes, this would be quite comfortable, he climbed back onto the bed and sat with his legs folded, until Kurt stepped back into the room.

Blaine watched him move slowly from the doorway until he stopped at the edge of the bed, right in front of where Blaine sat. He was unsure why, but for some reason, his heart started to pick up speed as he sat there, looking up at Kurt, Kurt looking down at him with shining eyes, his skin looking even whiter now that he was clad in the navy blue fabric of Blaine's old, oversized t-shirt. But he couldn't look away, and neither, it seemed, could Kurt.

After what felt like a very, very long stretch of silently staring into each other's eyes, Kurt and Blaine began to move – Kurt, very slowly, extending his arms until his hands rested on Blaine's shoulders, and Blaine, just as slowly, raising his hands to take a gentle hold of Kurt's waist.

Blaine's heart hadn't slowed.

And it wasn't going to, not if Kurt kept looking at him like that – like he wanted to tell him something, something he was having trouble saying even after everything he had said the night before. Like Blaine meant something to Kurt, was valued beyond words' ability to describe. Like he was feeling something or thinking something that terrified him, and he wanted to share it – was on the verge of sharing it – but couldn't find the words to do it.

Blaine barely had time to come to a frightening moment of realization in his own mind before Kurt grasped his shoulders tight, leaned down and kissed him.

It was not hard, but it was powerful. There was no desperation, but there was desire. It did not feel sexual, but the urge to hold each other and to know each other by touch, it was there, and it had wrapped itself around their bodies, and was holding them together.

It wasn't until Kurt had pulled away – just the slightest bit – that Blaine realized he had closed his eyes, and that the only things he was notably conscious of were the warmth of Kurt's hips beneath his fingertips, the tickle of Kurt's breath against his lips, and cool pressure of Kurt's forehead resting against his own. He opened his eyes.

Kurt's brow was furrowed, but he didn't look upset, not at all. In a word, Blaine decided he looked breathless; just as Blaine was feeling.

Slowly Kurt brought one knee onto the bed. Blaine moved back to give him room, and he brought up his other knee, then adjusted so that he was sitting, legs folded beneath him, right in front of Blaine. He hadn't moved his hands from Blaine's shoulders, and he had barely let their foreheads separate.

Without knowing what he was going to say, Blaine suddenly murmured, "Kurt…"

But never finished, because again, Kurt's lips were pressing against his own. This time, it was less powerful, less wanting. It was soft. So soft that, in a way, it startled Blaine more than the first one.

Blaine found himself closing his eyes once again, and almost as if he had no control over them, he felt his hands moving slightly lower on Kurt's hips.

Quickly, he stopped them, but Kurt continued kissing him – still so lightly that their lips were barely brushing against each other.

Blaine unfolded his legs and straightened up a little, matching Kurt to height, bringing his hands back to Kurt's waist, and slowly shifting their bodies back to the top of the bed. Kurt followed, never once allowing the kissing to stop, and – as far as Blaine had noticed – never once opening his eyes. He lingered on this for a moment, and his heart suddenly felt heavy as it did the night before. It felt both honored and intimidated by the trust that Kurt had placed right into his very hands. Whether trusting Blaine with something as complex as the secret of his past or with something as simple as allowing Blaine to guide him to the top of the bed, he trusted him. Kurt trusted Blaine.

Blaine led Kurt down onto the pillows, settling their bodies snugly among the blankets, close together. Kurt leaned into Blaine, ran his hand from Blaine's stomach, over his heart, right to his neck. They kissed again. This time, if possible, the kiss was even lighter than the last.

Blaine felt Kurt pull away and settle down onto him, his head on Blaine's shoulder, his arm around his midriff.

So focused on Kurt's steady, rhythmic breathing and the way he could feel the expand-contract of Kurt's chest against his side, Blaine started a little when Kurt suddenly spoke.

"Blaine?" his voice was quiet.

"Yes, Kurt?"

"Can I… tell you something?"

There was a timid laugh at the end of the question, and Blaine's chest bubbled with silent laughter as well, and they both knew why. Kurt held onto Blaine a little tighter.

"Of course you can, Kurt. Anything, always."

"I…" he hesitated, then tightened his hold even more and whispered, "I want you so badly."

Blaine felt his chest tighten and was sure the gasp he felt was audible, but he didn't care. He knew this to be true. Kurt had already told him, just the night before. He told him he wanted it, it being whatever it was their feelings were driving them towards. But there was something about hearing this way, so outward and so honest, and there was something about hearing it again, but this time, after everything else he had heard last night, that frightened him and thrilled him and threatened to make him say everything and anything he had ever thought and felt and dreamed about Kurt aloud.

But he couldn't do that, so he tightened his hold on Kurt in turn, kissed the top of his head through his messy hair, and whispered, "I know. I know. But… but what you've done here, Kurt… what you're doing, the way you're doing it… it's proven to me that you're even smarter, even wiser, and have an even bigger heart than I could ever have imagined. And that's saying something," he added, genuinely.

He felt Kurt laughing against him, and then he felt him lifting his head to look into his eyes. He was smiling. His eyes looked the tiniest bit watery, but he was smiling when he chuckled, "Well, ditto."

Blaine couldn't help it – he laughed, loud and silly and honest, just the way he had at the obnoxious puns Kurt had spouted throughout their first date to the galleries, just like he had when he realized Kurt was _actually _dragging him into that ridiculous French film…

Kurt wiped an eye with the back of his hand, then swatted Blaine playfully on the chest before biting his lip and grinning ear to ear.

* * *

It was odd, at first, lying there with Kurt without a care in the world. For a while, it felt as though the previous night had not even happened. But among every smile, every affectionate stare, ever soft touch and every kiss, Blaine's mind brimmed with questions.

After a long silence during which Blaine lay sprawled on his back, hands resting palms-up on either side of his head, while Kurt sat with his legs in a pretzel on Blaine's right, gently dragging his fingers up and down Blaine's side, Kurt seemed to have read Blaine's mind when he suddenly said, "You can ask me, you know."

"W... What?"

"You can ask me, if there are things you want to know. There's a lot I haven't told you."

Blaine nodded, then couldn't help himself from asking, "Do I really have _that _bad of a poker face?"

Kurt smiled. "Disgraceful."

Blaine massaged the back of his neck and looked up at Kurt, smiling, but hesitant.

"Really, Blaine. It's okay."

"I guess… I guess I'm wondering who else knows," he said, and Kurt closed his eyes and nodded.

"Well, I consider myself lucky in a way not a lot of, of victims of this sort of thing aren't; the five of them were caught. Not in the act, but… but it didn't take long for someone to find me. When they did, the area was searched, and they had barely gotten off the school grounds."

Kurt's gaze had darkened a bit, but he was worlds more composed than the night before. Blaine watched him and waited, silently, for him to continue.

"Anyway… it's all a little blurry to me. Kind of like, like trying to remember a nightmare but… I know that I had a driver's license, and I guess that's how they tracked down my dad, because… because I know he was there when they took me away."

"Do you remember… seeing him? Talking to him?"

"I remember, um…" he paused a moment, examining his hands as he wrung them in his lap. "I remember seeing him, yes… but I couldn't talk. I mean, I guess I could have, but… but I couldn't."

Blaine nodded, understanding.

"Finn and my stepmom had been home already, but obviously, this wasn't something he would or, or could keep from them. For a long time, though, it was just my dad there with me, at the hospital. I don't think he ever left my side… but… but my family, my cousins and everyone, most of them know," he said, looking Blaine in the eye. "While I was technically a minor and my name was never printed or, or anything, you have to remember that all of those guys were apprehended in one way or another, and I was in the hospital and… and you know how these things work."

"What about the other guys you're close with, the ones who're close with Finn?"

Blaine caught a small smile on Kurt's lips before he said, "Yeah, they... they've been good friends with Finn for a long time. Noah, Sam, and a few others... I've been close to them to, and during my... 'recovery period'... it was hard to lie to them. In a way, I feel like they're all my brothers. They've all helped me in some way... I just couldn't... I couldn't _not _tell them. They're like family... you know?"

Again, Blaine nodded. He hesitated, but eventually asked, "How long were you in the hospital?"

"Not too long," Kurt said quickly, shaking his head. "A lot of testing, a lot of precautionary things but, but I got there so soon and, and was taken care of so quickly, I never even contracted anything. Another way I consider myself one of the lucky ones," he laughed under his breath, sadly. Blaine closed his eyes for a moment.

As Kurt opened up, and Blaine felt more and more trusted, he tried to be less hesitant in asking questions. It was hard, but he tried. Quietly he asked, "Kurt, did… did you have any kind of… did you receive anything like…"

"Counseling?" Kurt asked. But he didn't look upset. Just thoughtful.

"Yes," Blaine said. "Anything like that?"

Kurt sighed heavily. "Two or three sessions, at the most. As you, you know, already know, we didn't and don't have a lot of money, and insurance only helps you out for a while. To be honest, though… I didn't want help. I mean, I wanted to forget, don't get me wrong… but I didn't like the help. To me it just felt like… like they were making me remember. I relived it every time I spoke about it and… and it felt like things were just getting worse. I thought that if I just tried to move on, tried to forget on my own, then… then I would be okay."

"But… but you weren't," Blaine whispered.

Kurt stared into his eyes for a long moment, before repeating, "But I wasn't." His eyes remained fixed on Blaine's. "But I'm not."

Blaine almost opened his mouth to speak, but Kurt interrupted him, saying quietly, "So I guess that brings us to…"

Together, he and Blaine finished.

"Us."


End file.
